By Definition: A Story About Dreaming
by Spitfireness
Summary: Art makes everything possible. Michael uses it to give Maria the only thing she's ever wanted.
1. Chapters 1-4

By Definition: A Story about Dreaming A { TEXT-DECORATION: none } 

**Title**: By Definition  
**Author**: Nes  
**Email**: spitfireness@yahoo.com  
**Spoilers**: First season up through "Heatwave," I think. I could be wrong:)  
**Notes**: This was my first fic and took over a year to complete. And this is actual semi-edited version. Whew. That makes feedback extra special.  
**Category**: Alternate Universe, Conventional couples, focus on M&M.  
**Disclaimer**: Me don't own nothing but Sra. Clarke. Roswell belongs to Melinda Metz, Jason Katims, etc. "Untitled" poem from Edna St. Vincent Millay. Other disclaimers as situations occur. 

Ashes in Their Eyes 

Liz could barely make out her best friend's growling over the sound of the rag on the wet counter. 

"Maria," she stepped up and tapped her gently,"you don't have to rub so violently. Look, clean! See!" She held up the finger she had rubbed on the countertop. 

"Maria?" 

"What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why, I have forgotten, and arms have lain Under my head till morning; but the rain Is full of ghosts tonight-" 

"Okay, too creepy," Liz took the rag out of Maria's hands and sat with her at the counter. Liz and Maria had closed the Crashdown after Midnight before, so the emptiness wasn't an unusual thing. She lived upstairs, the Crashdown was home...but there was something scary about the whole situation. Maria was growling. But her best friend was not a growler, Maria was a "throw them against the wall with verbal assault" sort of girl. But lately, Maria was getting quiet. 

Between the Marionettes of the Four Corners Convention and the usual dinner crowd there wasn't exactly time small talk, but Liz missed the light banter that made closing time fly by. 

She put her arms around the blonde, laying Maria's head against her breast. She could feel the tears swell and gather on her uniform and it hurt. Liz felt old, she tightened her embrace and place a kiss on Maria's brow. No one so small should hold so many tears. 

Liz had done her fair amount of crying lately. Max Evans, sweet guy with a chip on his shoulder about the size of, oh, ET. She could hardly say his name outloud anymore. She loved him so much and she'd been so sure he loved her -he'd saved her life. But strangers saved other strangers lives everyday... 

"And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain For unremembered-" 

"I remember that. The Millay from English early this year." Liz remembered Alex's melodramatic reading in the cafeteria. God, how she missed laughing. "I only know that summer sang in me A little while, that in me sings no more.' 

"Do you think she knew about Czechoslovakians?" 

Maria quirked her eyebrow, the first expression Liz had seen in two days. "Only you, Liz." Maria unexpectedly began to shiver, her giggles shaking the booth." 

"Hey, I got you to stop growling, right?" 

"I love you, Liz." She hugged her best friend. "I am so happy I have you." She brightened. "Hey, do you remember in the in the sixth grade -that sleepover. We were dreaming of our perfect men. Do you remember that we wanted foreign, exotic hotties?" 

Both girls shared an abrupt spark of hysterical laughter and sighed. 

*** 

Alex took a breath and walked up to the girls at the lockers. So weird, he'd known Maria and Liz forever. Now he had to prep himself to greet them. The past few months had been so weird. There that word was again. 

"Parker, DeLuca," he nodded his head. Their eyes were red. A few months' awkwardness wasn't enough to suppress his instincts. Putting one arm around each, he hugged them close. His instincts told him they weren't crying because of allergies. He steered them towards the quad outside and sat them down beneath a tree. He knelt down in front of them, voice soft, "Please. I know we've had a time lately, but please. I'm still Alex and you're still my girls. Tell me what's wrong." 

Liz looked up at him. Her face was shadowed, her mouth dragged at a tired angle. Maria was much the same. There were ashes in their eyes. 

And then he knew. He brushed his hand against Maria's cheek, "No, you don't need to say anything." 

*** 

From an upstairs classroom, a young girl was brushing her golden hair behind her ear and holding the blinds open at the same time. Not many people would ever call Isabel Evans a young girl, but despite the classic beauty and strength, she was only sixteen. Young. For a human. 

Maybe her people had different lifespans. Maybe she was going to die in a year. Maybe she'd live to see a thousand. Isabel had no idea. 

So maybe it was best it wasn't the years that mattered. Maybe it was the quality of life, the light of it all. She closed the blinds and her eyes, laid against the plaster wall. 

Too many grown up thoughts. 

"I have a thing for Alex Whitman." There -a declaration. That wasn't grown up at all. 

"Isabel!" God, it was them again. After so much intelligent company with Liz, Maria and...oh, lord, Alex...she didn't know how much longer she could stand this. "Isabel, did you see what Cindy is wearing today? Designer rip-off. And what kind of name is Cindy anyhow? Can you say eighties?" Fingers ending in pink acrylic grabbed Isabel's purse and tugged towards the cafeteria, "Ohmigod, this is so cute!" 

*** 

Michael shut his eyes and let his hand graze his jacket pocket. The little lump there was comforting. It reminded him of Maria. God, DeLuca. He opened his eyes and focused on the canvas before him. He brought his hand up and with swift strokes he brushed in her chin. God, her pert little chin. Even her chin could send him happy vibes. DeLuca was a vibrator and he knew that if he ever stopped concentrating he would just fall and fall. 

Michael Guerin was swept off his feet. 

He landed face down in a pile of stained smocks. Rubbing his jaw he found himself against the door of the art studio. 

"What the hell?" 

Alex Whitman was holding him a good five inches off the ground and close to tearing his favorite shirt. 

*** 

Having escaped the Pit of Vapidity that was Courtenay, Sienna, and Delora, Isabel jumped into the front back of the jeep. Michael was already in front and she could see Michael at the other end of the lot. "Hurry it up, Guerin! Lunch is only an hour," she yelled. "Salsa is so hip, grey is, like, the new black," She grumbled under her breath. She needed angry music. Reaching into the glove compartment for her Tori Amos cd, Isabel looked at Max. He was quiet, but usually he said hi. "Hey, big brother, what's with the -oh no, did Kyle's friends come after you again cause if they did-" She stopped her tirade to look at his cheek. 

At the handprint on his cheek. Michael jumped in front while Isabel healed it. 

Tersely, Max said, "Let's go." 

When they'd cleared the school parking lot, Isabel said again,"Max. Who slapped you? Liz? I don't think Liz would even yell at you. Maria! She's all- oh, she's gonna pay! Nobody slaps my family around!" 

"Alex." 

"What?" Isabel looked at Michael, confused. 

In return, Michael looked at Max and said,"He got you, too." 

Introductions and Whipping Boys 

Alex put his laden tray down on the bench. "Look, chocolate." His best friends weren't girls for nothing. He'd snuck out of class and raided the vending machines in the teacher's lounge during third hour. 

Maria brightened, "Special Dark!" 

Liz cut in while she unwrapped the creamy bar from the foil wrapping. Slowly, as if in worship. "Where did you get these? They don't sell them in the student vending machines only in the- Oh, Alex!" Liz wrapped her arms around her friend. She didn't know how she'd gotten through the past few months without her goofy, but incredibly wonderful friend. 

Alex smiled and then guffawed as Maria licked the palm of her hand, "What!!! It was melting. Stupid New Mexico weather. Almost as stupid as -eeep!" 

Liz's face had paled again. Alex turned around and saw Isabel Evans heading for them. 

*** 

Isabel clenched her jaw when she saw Alex stand up. She couldn't help but admire the way -agh, stop, this boy beat Max and Michael. And she didn't know why, they'd both clammed up. 

He grabbed her arm in a firm but gentle grip and led her to the eraser room. 

She regained her voice. "So what, you're gonna beat me up, too?" 

Oh, great. He hadn't even considered Isabel when he'd gone after Max and Michael. "No, Isabel, I just- they got...they made Liz and Maria cry." 

She paused, strangely touched. "Yeah, so..." 

"Isabel, they're like sisters to me. They've never cried like that before-" 

"You've never seen them cry?" 

"No, of course I've seen them cry. But not like this. It was like they were broken. Liz, she has those eye, doe eyes, you know. Soft and gentle. Maria, she's got lightning in her eyes. That wasn't them this morning." 

"So you beat up my brother and Michael?" 

"They broke their hearts, Isabel. They deserved it." 

Isabel was surprised. She would never have guess Alex had it in him. A little jealous. "Okay." She took a breath. "Do you think they'll want to see me? For a little womanly support?" 

"Sure, but I thought you left school for lunch." 

"Usually, but I saw the handprint on Max's face and I made him turn around." 

"Oh. But they left again, right?" 

"No they decided to eat -oh, no." 

Alex grabbed Isabel's hand and bolted back towards the sad girls he'd left behind. 

*** 

Max and Michael sat behind a tree across the quad from their ex-semi-girlfriends, watching Isabel approach. Each wishing they could join the group with the same ease. 

"Man, this is stupid." 

"Calm down, Michael. We can't go over there. It's better this way. 

"I don't even know why we let Whitman go all wild bunch on us." Max didn't bother to answer. They both knew that it wasn't just because Maria and Liz wouldn't take kindly to Alex being thrown across a room into a chair. Or even because Isabel might be upset by it. It had to do with guilt -like maybe they deserved it. 

"Dude, I'm out. You want to butter up Liz, that's your deal." 

Max watched his best friend stalk away. He wondered if Michael thought denial was going to make the ache dull. 

*** 

Why did I bother coming to school today? Oh, right, to show Blondie she didn't affect him. Right? Michael shook his head and headed for his locker, he needed to focus on something else. He needed to read a book. 

When he reached his locker he realized he couldn't remember his combination. Checking the hall for people and finding it empty, he passed his hand over the lock in an attempt to unlock it. 

"Hot damn!" Michael sucked his hand and stalked away from his locker and the lock he'd melted to it. 

What am I supposed to do now? I don't feel like walking home. I'm sure not going to class. Where in the high school was he supposed to find a decent read? 

In a flash of brilliance, Michael hightailed it to the library. 

After five wrong turns, he finally found it in a corner of the second floor. Having never been there before he wasn't sure what to do. He wasn't even sure what to do. He hated being helpless. 

He guessed he must have looked confused because a teacher-type woman in her forties approached him. 

"Book. I'm looking for a book." 

"Okay, what are you looking for?" 

"I don't know. Do I need a library card?" 

The woman laughed but not in a condescending way. It was a sharing sort of laughter, unconditional. She explained the workings of the Roswell High library as she led him to a study carroll with a compter in it. 

Sitting down before the keyboard, she looked up, "So, made up your mind?" 

"I was thinking Joyce. Ulysses?" 

"Let's see." She hit a few keys, "I hate to say it but all the copies are checked out." 

"Oh." Disappointment fitted easily on his ever-brooding face. 

"It's on the reading list for one of the freshman classes. Most of them aren't even reading it. They just check it out and forget to turn it back in. Oh, well, more fines for me!" She smiled, looking as if she didn't really mind. "Tell you what, you look like a nice young man, I'll lend you my copy if you agree to chat with an old biddy for a while, okay?" 

"You're not old," Michael blurted out. And it was true, she was forty-seven at most. He had the grace to look embarassed. No one, not even the Evanses, had ever called him a nice young man. He was off guard. Yeh, that was it. And she wasn't like Topolsky offering something for nothing. A chat -harmless enough. He did want the book after all. And he doubted that Alex, Liz, or any of the others would come to the library. 

She led him to the front of the library. Her office didn't have walls, per se. They were there, but they were made of glass. Blinds could be drawn on all sides for privacy. He liked it. There was a also a nice desk, computer, stereo, bookshelves, and television. Elegant beige wallpaper -no flowers or ribbon or anything. There were also several diplomas and framed pieces of art. He decided it was nice. Understated. 

She gestured to one of the burgundy overstuffed armchairs in front of the desk and disappeared into a back room. When she came back bearing chocolate mint cake and green tea, she sat in the other armchair not behind the desk. 

"I'm Ms. Clarke, the media specialist." She held out her hand and noticed his firm grip. She couldn't have known how rare it was for him to engage in casual contact. That she was only the second human who'd touched him. Hank smacking him around didn't count. "Help yourself to some cake. If you don't like tea, I can get some pop from the faculty vending machine." 

"No, don't. Tea's good. Thanks." Why was this woman being so nice? 

"If you'll just excuse me for a moment, you'll find Ulysses on the top shelf." she ducked out and Michael drew himself up from the wonderfully comfortable chair. 

Hardcover. Beautiful. Old. First edition. He was clutching it so hard when she came back he didn't notice what she was carryied in. 

"You're really going to let me borrow this? It must be worth...," his eyes widened as he thought about it. 

"All books are worth fortunes." She smiled. "You must think I'm kooky." 

"No." And oddly enough, he was being honest. 

She handed him a generous slice of cake and then did something so shocking that Michael nearly forgot this person being so kind to him for no reason. 

"You like tabasco sauce on your cake?" 

Laughing at herself, "Leftover from pregnancy urges. But better this than the mungo bean tacos. Have you ever tried tabasco on ice cream? Heaven." 

Oh, that was okay then. He waited for his heart to slow, he thought, just maybe she'd be- but Ms. Clarke was already a miracle. "Well, if you like it, I'll try." Happily, he smothered his chocolate cake with spicy sauce. 

"I knew it! I was right about you!" 

Oh, lord, she couldn't be with the FBI- 

"I knew you were a good boy!" 

He calmed and didn't flinch at being called boy. 

"I have a proposition for you." She leaned forward conspiratorially. "Look, I need an aide. Not like a hearing aid, but a student helper. Usually, they have to be seniors. But there's just something about you...What was your name?" 

"Michael. Michael Guerin." 

"Guerin? Scotch extraction? Anyhow, the senior thing is silly. Once you get them properly trained, they leave. What grade are you in? Eleventh?" 

"I'm a sophomore." 

"Better and better! Anyhow, the job isn't too strenuous. There's already Mrs. Harris and she pretty much controls the computers and A/V equipment. Ms. Jeson," she tiltled her head towards the backroom where she'd gotten the cake and tabasco, "takes cares of xeroxing and cataloging. I pretty much need you to lift things and run errands. And to keep me company." 

"I don't know...I'm not usually at school." 

She smiled. "Playing hard to get, are we, Michael? Did I mention the free food? All the tabasco and cake you can eat? Plus, the books. And its a quiet place to get away, no one will bother you here. You want to research on the net, you research. Magazines and microfilche, all yours. Videos, records." 

Oh, geez. A quiet place with no memories of Maria or the others. No Hank. A refuge. How could he turn this down? 

"Okay, last offer. Free run of the art supplies and xerox machines. All the copying you could want. No, you're sixteen, that's not very appealing. Hmmm, hall passes. If you need to get away, come here, I'll excuse you from class." 

"Can you do that?" How the hell had this fallen into his lap? 

"Sweetheart, I've been at this school longer than the last three principals." Her eyes twinkled, "And my brother's on the school board." 

"Yes. Yes. I'll do it." 

"Great." She took a bite of cake, then frowned. "Oh, there is one thing I can't get around, though. I need a teacher recommendation. Just one. I'm sure you'll have no problem getting it." 

He gulped. Who would give him a recommendation? What was he taking? Art. He'd at least showed up for art during his geodesic dome obsession. The warning bell rang for class. In fact, he had class right now. Besides, he liked to loiter there. It felt good, distracting. He'd been there this morning when- 

He jumped up, "Hey, Ms. Clarke. Thanks. A lot. I mean it. But I gotta get to class now, okay. When do you need the recommendation." 

"Tomorrow would be fine. Then you could start next week. But come visit before then if you're not busy, okay?" 

He nodded his head. Anything for this woman. A refuge. Grabbing Ulysses and waving goodbye, Michael Guerin set out for art class. 

Maria sped into the Crashdown parking, nearly fishtailing. Grabbing her backpack from the passenger seat she went through the employees entrance and dressed before someone noticed she was five minutes late. 

Liz wasn't working the after school shift so Table Six was hers. 

"Hey, guys, what can I get you?" She smiled at Isabel and Alex. She looked at Max unemotionally, proud she had not stuck her tongue out at him. Maria knew Max was really a sweet guy who was trying to do things right, but he was still a jerk. 

"Root beer." 

"Alien blast." 

"Where's Liz?" Max looked as if he hadn't meant to say that outloud. "I'll have cherry coke." 

She took pity. "She's still at school. Some extra credit biology lab or something." She left out the part where he was in her bio class, why didn't he know? 

"Oh. I was, uh, hoping she knew where Michael was." 

Maria left the table, sparing him the question of how likely _that_ was. 

*** 

Liz was, in fact, finishing a presentation on recent microcellular innovations. It was nice, she decided, to be alone and focus. Humming, she decided she needed to spruce up her board. Some paint. Red. 

She headed to the art room, still humming. It was good to be alone sometimes. Soothing. 

*** 

Michael sat before an empty easel. He'd made a deal with Mr. Hinds to come to class everyday for the rest of the year and turn in one assignment. With the stipulation: no domes. Michael smiled. He would have agreed to do all the assignment in exhange for the refuge. He was really liking the sound of that word. Refuge. That was like 'home.' Maybe it would be better than 'Maria' with time. 

But his dilemma was the assignment. He figured he'd might as well get it over with. The assignment was an extrapolation. You were supposed to pick two people and draw what the offspring would look like. He thought of Max and Liz but the obvious dark beauty of such a child didn't inspire him. Besides, who knew if it was even physiologically possible. This, of course, led to him and Maria. A verboten topic if ever there was one. 

He'd doodled during class. He picked Sienna Mitchell, one of Isabel's friends, and Lloyd Carson, the token class geek. While fun, the results had been a freak. 

It was hot. Wiping the sweat off his brow, Michael noticed the green and red paint smeared on his arm. His leather jacket was safely slung over the stool behind him. 

Maybe he could- 

And for the second time that day, Michael Guerin found himself on his back. 

Little Liz Parker stood above him, breathing fire. 

"Can't you people leave me alone! You're everywhere!" 

He picked himself up, "Geez, Liz. Chill." 

"Chill? Chill? You! You Czechoslovakian heartbreaker!" 

"Maybe you've been spending too much time with Maria. I never thought you'd need to be declawed," he sneered. 

"How dare you say her name? How dare you?" Liz withdrew her venemous glare, looking around for something to throw. 

"Liz!" He ducked the paint she threw. "Calm down! I didn't do anything to you, Max did. And then he couldn't yell anymore because he was trying not to be hit by the textbooks and folios she was throwing. God, she had aim. 

"You!" She'd run out of ammo and, apparently, insulting modifiers. 

"Don't make me your whipping boy, Liz!" 

Her eyes blazed in indignation, "Oh, you think this is for _my_ benefit. Oh, no, this is all for Maria. You used her. You didn't even like her! You didn't even know what you were doing. How many levels you were hurting her on?" 

"Oh, yeah, she's a victim. Like she's ever been rejected before!" 

Then her voice dropped to a dead simmer, "You don't even know what you're talking about." 

"Whatever, go make cow eyes at Maximilian or something, okay, earth girl." 

With one last burst of rage, Liz lifted Michael's leather jacket off the table and threw it at his face. More concerned with it getting stained with paint than anything, he put out his hand to catch it. 

But Liz hadn't used enough force. It fell between them, and a little bottle of cypress oil rolled out of his pocket to rest at Liz's feet. 

Won't You Please Arrest My Foster Father? 

Michael closed his eyes and willed the damned thing to stop rolling. No such luck. So Michael did what he did best, he ran. 

And as he ran he imagined Liz telling Maria how pathetic he was. Maria would, of course, toss her soft fair hair over her shoulder, and parade her new boyfriend in front of him. Life was cruel. 

He'd never meant to carry it. He hadn't even planned to buy it. But it smelled like Maria. Sweet-mouthed, hyperventilating Maria. No matter how rarely he said the name outloud, it felt so good to roll it around in his mind. 

Michael shivered, he'd left his jacket back at the high school. He never should have been there anyway. He wasn't going to walk back now. Not because he didn't want to face Liz "Xena" Parker, but because he just didn't want to bother. 

"Mickey! Hey, Mickey!" A portly man called at him from a doorway. 

God, he hated to be called Mickey. Must be one of Hank's friends. 

"Hank's boy! Get over here, come get your father!" 

And there was something he hated even worse. 

Nevertheless, he stomped over to the guy standing in the doorway, naturally, of a bar. Also, naturally, a patrol car was parked in front of the bar. 

"Mickey, he's too drunk. There was a brawl, but Hank was too far gone to do anything but pass out. I need you to take him home." 

Home. It took him a minute to associate the words 'home' and 'Hank.' 

"Yeah, sure," he answered gruffly and pushed his way inside. The place was a mess. Sure, it had probably never been a five star joint but...there was glass everywhere. Splinters of wood and broken bar stools littered the floor. Gingerly, he worked his way to the lump that was his sorry foster father. Grunting, he called out, "Hey, can I get some help here." 

"Guerin?" Oh, yes, the sheriff. What a completely perfect night. 

"Sir, I'm just taking my foster father home. Not able to drive and all. Unless, of course, you need to arrest him?" Michael figured he could dream 

"No, that's okay." Valenti looked around for a uniform, "Owens, help the boy." 

Odd. Valenti usually took every chance to pester him and the Evans' children. Instead, Valenti was preoccupied with a sobbing woman. She was small, and he was being unexpectedly gentle with- 

Dear lord, it was Amy DeLuca. 

And she was wasted. Valenti had one arm around her, the other was awkwardly patting her shoulder in attempt at comfort. "Amy -Ms. DeLuca, you shouldn't be here. This is not," Valenti squirmed, "an appropriate establishment for a lady." 

Amy was still sobbing. Michael couldn't help but stare and listen. He'd assumed she would be at home with her daughter. 

"I can't go home, Jim. I can't." She clung to the Sheriff. "I can't face her. Can't look at her without thinking of him. She has his eyes, his laugh." The woman moaned and called out to the bartender for another beer. 

The sheriff shook his head no to the bartender, looked up, and locked eyes with Michael. "Shouldn't you be going?" 

Michael lugged Hank into the truck with the help of the deputy. Driving to the trailer park, Michael remembered Liz's cold anger and Maria's revelation in the nookie hotel. 

Her father had left. 

And though Maria hadn't told him, he recognized the look in her eyes. She blamed herself. As if she hadn't been worth it. Her father didn't want her, so he ran. 

Which, Michael realized, didn't make them so different in her eyes. 

That's when the ache really began to set in. 

*** 

After realizing his presence might not be the best thing, Max left Isabel and Alex in the booth at the Crashdown. 

Isabel realized they had made a connection today, however tenuous. So, rather than leave with Max, as Alex expected, she asked him about his music. 

"So, do you still play the guitar?" 

He was surprised she knew. "Yeah, I've got pipe dreams." He took a sip of soda. "I really want to start a garage band. Since junior high, really." 

"Oh, why haven't you?" 

"The garage band, preferably, would have more than one member." 

"I play a mean triangle." 

Alex laughed, heads turned. The gossip would be hot tomorrow, Isabel Evans was talking to Alex Whitman. Not coldly, or in my-brother-ex-girlfriend's-best friend capacity, but in an almost date-like environment. 

"Seriously, I'd like a drummer. And a bassist. I'd be lead guitar, of course?" 

"And singing, too?" 

He sighed and looked at their waitress, "I was holding out for Maria." 

She arched an eyebrow, "Maria?" 

"Voice like an angel. Cliche, but true." 

"Maria?" 

"You'd never guess, would you? She's taken vocal lessons her whole life and yet has managed to keep this raw, uncontrived color to her voice. She rarely sings, though. She's got a bad case of audience-fear." 

"Maria? Fear?" 

"Or maybe it's more like she's shy. I knew Maria three years before I even saw her dance." 

"Maria? Dance?" 

Alex snorted, "Echo much?" 

"Sorry, it's a little hard to digest. She's never seemed very graceful." 

"Its different when she's dancing or singing. She doesn't really perform. She does it for art's sake. She gets caught up, not like she's lost, but like..." 

Isabel nodded,"It sounds beautiful." And then she did something daring, she put her hand on top of his. 

Alex cheered inwardly, "It is. It's how I feel when I play. When I play, I feel strong-" 

Alex choked. 

Isabel rushed to him on the other side of the booth and smacked his back, "Are you okay?" 

"Better than okay! Lightning hit!" 

"What?" 

"It's the answer. For Maria. She needs to dance and sing again." 

"Are you sure?" 

"Absolutely, it's got to be better than rebounding or sniffing her oils or denial. Trust me, its therapeutic. We can't force her into forgetting Michael. I'm not sure I'd want her to. I just know I can't stand that look anymore." 

"Okay, so what's the plan?" She leaned in and he squeezed her hand. 

*** 

"And so you see with the research of Dr. Keller in biodmedical ultrasonics...," Liz was on total autopilot. She had worked her shift at the Crashdown and finished her presentation until six the next morning after Michael had ran out on her. She was still in shock. She really thought Michael didn't care about her best friend. All through her walk to the general store for red paint (she, too, had fled) and back, she had wondered what was going on. Was this a Czechoslovakian quirk? Leave the ones you love? No, wait, she was being too gentle. Run over the hearts of the ones you love with a Mack truck and then let lemmings eat the leftover bits, just to be sure. Liz shuddered, maybe she was being too graphic. But she was bitter, she could, be graphic. It was allowed. 

"Liz?" 

"What?" Then Liz realized that she had finished speaking a minute ago but was still standing in front of the class. "Oh, class." She rushed to her seat beside Max. 

"Hey," he whispered, "are you okay?" 

"Fine." Monosyllabism was also allowed. 

"Okay, hey, Liz...," he hesitated. "You did a really great job." 

She softened, he really was trying, "Thanks." Lifting her head, she let a smile loose. Let him handle that, she smirked inwardly. 

Shyly, Max smiled back. 

*** 

"Mr. Guerin, I see we're keeping our bargain." 

"Yes, sir. You're still going to give me the recommendation, right?" 

"Let's hear about the assignment first." Mr. Hinds sat down while Michael paced before him. 

"I want to do the extrapolation. Only different. What if I were to draw a parent based on the image of the child and the other parent." 

"Clarify." 

"Well, say, I drew the mother based on the father and son. Studied the son and father and kind of fill in the blanks," he looked at Mr. Hinds for approval. The teacher thought about it for awhile before pulling a crisp piece of school letterhead out of his desk, "I like it, Michael. I want results within the week though. A sketch, at least." 

Michael clutched the recommendation; this was his key to refuge. 

"Thank you, sir." 

Mr. Hinds called out as Michael ran out the door towards the library, "Keep it up, you might just pass!" 

Then he sat back and smiled. Who was he kidding? Guerin was headed for an A. He wondered about the sudden change, he'd never heard the boy utter a pleasantry before. Then he decided whatever it was, he was glad Michael finally had something happen to him. 

*** 

When Michael entered the library he found Ms. Clarke carrying a cardboard moving box into her office. 

"Hi, Michael. There's cookies and tabasco in the back. Help yourself. Is that my recommendation?" 

"Yes, ma'am." He put the paper down and took the box out of her hands. 

"Thank you. I'm just doing a little redecorating. Taking down the diplomas and putting up some art. I like change now and then. Go ahead and open the box, since you'll be spending so much time here you might as well have input." 

Michael opened the box on the floor and lifted out the first painting, a reproduction of The Last Supper. Too heavy for the room, he decided before placing it carefully on the floor. 

"Wow." The second painting incredible. Old, but not yellowed. Paint, but not oil. And it wasn't framed, it was on a wood panel. The picture itself was amateurish, and the subject absurd -a whimsical giraffe in a cityscape, but the medium was breathtaking. 

"My father painted that." 

"What did he use?" 

"Ah? Mind hungry, are we?" She sat down and gestured for him to do the same. "I see you're in Mr. Hind's art class." 

Usually when someone found out, they asked to see him work and acted insulted when he refused. 

"Maybe one day you'll feel comfortable enough with me to let me see." 

He smiled. 

"Anyhow, its tempera. Egg tempera." 

"Like from chickens?" 

"Yes. It's a very old technique, the Egyptians used it. Boticelli used it. The artist, or the apprentices, makes the paints himself. With pigment, water, and yolk. My father made his own. It's an arduous process, but in my father's opinion, breathtaking. A labor of love. You see, you need to have an ink underpainting, and gesso. And you can't use canvas. Wood panels or it'll crack. My father made his own panels, too. That way, the work was completely his own creation." 

Michael could tell this was special. The painting was beautiful, as if it had been shined with silk. "How come I've never seen one before?" 

"As I said, its difficult. Oil paints are more convenient. Its only enjoyed its revival in the twentieth century, you can buy the ground pigment in the stores now, but only in limited colors. My father always used his own." 

A labor of love. 

"Do you think I could learn?" 

She looked at him seriously, mulling it over before she answered. "Michael Guerin, I think you do what you wish." 

He smirked charmingly and as he considered, the smirk curved into a sincere smile. 

This would be his medium. Egg tempera. Not oil, or charcoal. From his own hands, with his whole self. A labor of love. A work that he could focus on. Neither vision induced or using his powers. A labor of love. This would be the way he painted Maria's father. 

In The Studio 

Three weeks later. 

*** 

Isabel Evans, Ice Queen Extraordinaire, could feel her heart race as she took a mental survey of her surroundings. When the footsteps faded behind her, she collapsed against the doorframe in relief. 

"Gee, Is, chill. It was just my mom," Alex was lounging comfortably on his bed with a magazine. 

"Exactly, Alex. Your mom. I've never met her before. I'm a girl. You're a boy. I'm coming to see you. You don't understand. Mothers have, like radar." 

"Radar. I assure you my mother does not suspect that you're 'not of this earth.'" 

"I'm not good enough for your son radar." 

He smiled gently and took her hand. "Is, you're gorgeous, intelligent, the only thing my mom is thinking is, how I got you here." 

"Well, no one else would give me guitar lessons," she purred coyly before leaning in for a kiss. 

Alex's kiss was smooth and tender. She opened her mouth a fraction, letting his hot breath flow into her. He knew she'd been kissed by other guys before but not that she'd never really kissed back. Isabel thought she should tell him, did so, and was rewarded with another kiss. 

"Minx," he whispered soft into her ear. "You are gorgeous -but where'd you hide the triangle?" He looked up and down her body, she was sheathed in a red sundress and her hair was down. She wore a lot more red now. 

Isabel settled against him on the bed, idly fingering the strings of his guitar. Opening up to Alex had been so easy once the first spar was cast. True, she wasn't open with everyone, but security was something new to her. He wasn't there because of urgent and dangerous obligation, but because he wanted to be... 

"I don't understand how they did it." 

Alex waited, knowing she had to work out the words. 

"How they left Liz and Maria. Now that I know how things can be _so_ right." 

He hugged her tight to him, "Max and Liz haven't really left each other. They still love and make googly eyes, you know. Or would know if you weren't so busy making googly eyes at me." 

She laughed, then sobered. "But what about Maria, I've seen her maybe three times in the last few weeks. And that was at the Crashdown." 

She's coping. I was right about the dancing and singing, you know. She's at school right now. Sometimes, I hear her singing when she thinks no one is listening." 

"God," Isabel said. "I don't understand why Michael refuses to be with her." 

"She's not the only one he's refusing. I can't remember the last time I saw the brooding one." 

/Shift/ 

Michael is in the dessert, near caves. The sun is at apex but he doesn't notice. He is concentrating on color. Closing his eyes, he sees her hair. Lemon, maybe a little darker. The strands vary in shade but never in softness. Smiling, he pulls out a folded pencil sketch. He remembers her mother's words, the same eyes. He is searching for pigments in the place that was, in a sense, his birthplace. He will search everywhere to find the perfect colors. 

/Shift/ 

Maria is wearing a backless black leotard and stretching in an empty studio. These are motions her body knows from before heartache. Limbering slowly, her muscles respond vaguely to a tape she has not played in a year. Before heartache. 

/Shift/ 

Eight coats of gesso were applied to the panel painstakingly. He has to be cautious. The panels were difficult to make, he cannot afford a mistake. And this painting must be perfect. Tacking the folded sketch to the wall, he begins the ink underpainting. 

/Shift/ 

Maria closes her eyes to feel rhythm. She moves mechanically at first across the stage. Breathing steadily, her back is arched, moving on feet and hands. Slowly, it comes back to her. A third across the stage she rises up and remembers what it is to be absorbed by the dance. The music loves her if no one else does. 

/Shift/ 

The strokes are coming now. Sunlight entering the studio in beams of gold. He steps back and corrects an ear. The painting must be perfect but not the man. He is, after all, human. He alternates glaze and paint, it must be perfect. There are no intrusions, nothing to mar his labor of love. Every line must be perfect. 

/Shift/ 

Spinning and leaping, Maria does not realize her eyes are still closed. With each step and stretch, she becomes riverlike. Her body rolls and ebbs. She runs her hands through her hair. She can't stop. When Maria opens her eyes, she's broken clear. 

/Shift/ 

He stares at the panel. His arms are stiff from careful posturing. But it is worth it. The painting is perfect. Every shadow in its place. Afraid to leave it in the studio, but afraid to move it, the painting rises and lays flat on a nearby table. Michael blinks in surprise. Curious, he narrows his eyes. Cardboard egg cartons jump into the trashcan. He touches the palette, suddenly, it's clean of paint. Smiling now, he reaches for an x-acto knife and slices the palm of his right hand. He places his left hand over it, feels heat, and it is healed. 

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	2. Chapters 5-10

By Definition: A Story about Dreaming A { TEXT-DECORATION: none } 

**Disclaimer**: The "dance and dancer" quote is a variation on a line from Guy Gavriel Kay's The Fionavar Tapestry. The Grijalvas are from the book, The Golden Key by Melanie Rawn, Jennifer Roberson, and Kate Elliott. 

Middle Child 

Max and a grumpy Isabel waited for their friend to crawl in Max's window. An excited Michael Guerin had called at three in the morning with what he termed 'important news.' 

"I swear to god, Max, if he thinks we're taking another road trip," Isabel huffed. 

"Don't worry, Isabel, we'll bring your boyfriend this time," she smacked her brother playfully but had smiled at the thought of Alex. 

The casement window slid open and Michael grinned at Isabel and Max. "I used them, my powers. I can control them now!" He lifted Isabel's pink bunny slippers off her feet and set them to hopping in front of their shocked faces. 

"What happened?" 

He paced back and forth, Isabel's slippers mimicking his movements in midair, "I dunno, I was just...I wanted to move the painting but it was still wet and I didn't want to touch it and then it just moved. I didn't even have to think about it. And then I could just do everything. Max, look." He shoved his right hand before them. I cut it, and I healed it." 

Max tried to contain his hope. He knew that Michael hated not being in control of his powers. While not exactly jealous of Max and Isabel, he knew his pride was hurt. "Michael, is it okay if we test this. I mean, I believe you. I'm totally proud of you. But let's get to know your limitations just...in case." 

Surprisingly, Michael agreed. He was confident in his abilities, now. Isabel hugged him, smiling, then got back to business, "You woke me up, Michael." 

"Oh, really," he took in her rumpled hair and pajamas. 

"So let's start off with dreamwalking. If anything happens, Max can pull us out." 

"Sure, safety first." 

He and Isabel laid down on Max's bed. After the pillows had been arranged to her satisfaction, Isabel whispered, "See you there." 

Michael found himself in a blue room, not unlike Isabel's. The bed was a little bigger and it was much messier. Her walk-in closet was wide open but there was nothing in there but jeans, shirts, and sweat pants. Inspired, he looked at her vanity. One tube of mascara and a lip gloss, but none of the various lotions and vials that she usually stockpiled. 

There were framed photographs of her and Max in Colorado, the entire Evans family, and one of Alex. There were even some stuck in the mirror. More of Max and the Evans family. There was even one with him. He hardly ever had pictures taken, no one ever asked. But this one, he remembered. The first day of sophomore year, Michael couldn't sleep and had walked over to their house. Before hitching a ride with them, Mr. Evans had requested a picture. Max had groaned, apparently they did this every year. He'd stood off of to the side, trying not to look like an intrusion. Mr. Evans fumbled with the timer before joining his wife and children; he looked surprised when he Michael leaning against the jeep. Gesturing, he indicated a spot beside him. And so here it was, a photograph of parents sending their children off to school. Only, it looked like he was the third child. Like he belonged. He whispered, "Like I was family." 

Arms enclosed him from behind, "Not like, Michael, you are family. You're my brother," she kissed his cheek, "don't you know that?" 

She moved in front of him, holding his hand, "Max is the annoying big brother who acts tries to act all grown up. I'm the spoiled brat little girl princess who gets whatever she wants from her big brothers." 

He whispered again, "Brothers." He'd often thought that nothing would change if he'd never been born. Isabel and Max might still be aliens, but they'd still have each other. He didn't fit in the equation, he was excessive; he made things harder. 

"And you're the middle child who doesn't want to be bratty or anal retentive. Instead, you're just difficult. A lot." 

He laughed, "Okay, brat 

*** 

"No, Agnes. You cannot have another break," Liz gestured towards the floor, "the place is packed. Besides, cigarettes can kill you." 

Maria grimaced from behind the older waitress and mouthed, "We should be so lucky." 

Liz stifled her laughter as Agnes walked away. Liz was sure Agnes would insult some customer before the hour was over, but she couldn't lose another waitress right now. Her parents had left for a restaurant convention in Oklahoma, leaving her in charge. 

They couldn't have chosen a worse weekend. Two huge tour groups had come into town last night and Casa de Enchilada, the only other non-food chain establishment was being renovated. Liz had struggled to handle everything with cool efficiency before breaking down and begging Alex to bus tables. 

And then, suddenly, she felt like she could tackle another influx. Looking up, she stared into the eyes of Max Evans. She still hadn't gotten over his rejection. They had gotten close, even sharing one mind-blowing kiss, so when Maria and Michael had hooked up she had asked Max, why they couldn't, too. She'd never expected him to let her go. 

He'd loved her for years. But, maybe, now that he knew her, he realized the Liz he'd fallen in love with...the reality didn't stack up. 

She knew better now. She could be patient. Wait for him to understand he didn't need to protect her; it was enough to love her. So, they hadn't started at square one, they were friends -best friends. 

So when she saw how carefree and happy the three Czechoslovakians were, she couldn't help but let go of the chip on her shoulder. 

"Hey guys, what's up? You're all looking less paranoid than usual. 

Max, Isabel, and even Michael laughed. Michael was the biggest surprise. He gestured expansively, "Three Tenth Planet special and cherry cokes on me." 

What's the occasion?" She'd never seen Michael is such a good mood. 

He leaned towards her and whispered in her ear, "I can control my powers!" 

So that's why he was acting like a little kid. She hugged him, "Congratulations!" Then pulled back as if burnt, "Um, sorry, Michael, I didn't mean-" 

"It's okay, Liz. Thanks for being so great about it. You're not bad for a...not being a Czechoslovakian." 

Max, Michael, and Isabel shared smiles. The entire day had been a joy. Playing around with their powers and acting like a family, without looking over their shoulders at strange noises. Max smiled especially wide, happy that Michael was being nice to Liz. It meant a lot to her and when she delivered the order to the cook, Maria could tell she was glowing. 

"Hey, Liz, Agnes drop dead?" 

"No, umm...," Liz wasn't sure what to tell Maria. She'd been avoiding Michael since the rave and had returned, slowly, to her old nature. Or, maybe not avoiding, Maria had also returned to dancing and singing. Liz had always been a little jealous of Maria's talents but knew that Maria sometimes envied her studiousness. It didn't matter in the long run, they had each other. She had the two best friends in the whole world. So she made her choice, "Michael can control his powers now." 

The blonde's eyes widened and Liz was afraid for a moment. Then Maria smiled a tiny smile and suggested, "This is big. Great. Your parents are gone for the weekend, why don't you have a celebratory get together tonight?" 

Liz hugged Maria, "That is such a great idea! I'll go tell them!" Orders in hand, Liz approached the three plus Alex who was joking with Isabel. 

"C'mon, Is, Liz could use the help. Besides, you look really hot in the uniform." 

"You saw that?" Isabel blushed. "Thanks, Liz." 

"So what are you guys doing tonight?" 

Max quirked an eyebrow, "I was thinking high-speed chase with a bunch of FBI agents in tow, but if you think you can top that, be my guest." 

"I was thinking we could have a Michael party." 

Michael blushed and ducked his head uncharacteristically. He'd been so obsessed with painting and the right ratio of egg yolk to pigment lately he hadn't been around the gang much. Instead of being insulted, they were acting, well, like friends. Even Liz, who had gone all Sigourney Weaver on him. Most of them were acting like friends, anyhow. Friends. Two human friends and a...broken heart? 

"Oh, that's right, Liz," a familiar voice cut in. "Take all the credit." 

Max, Michael, and Liz looked up in surprise. Alex and Isabel shared a knowing glance and handsqueeze. "Liz's hands were full so I thought I'd go ahead and bring these over." She put three bottles of Tabasco on the tabletop and walked away leaving the stunned in her wake. 

*** 

Maria let her body flow, sharply now, then smooth. Everytime she danced, it was sweet. She didn't now why she'd stopped. To unconsciously pick up on a hook here and know what to do. No confusion or question of right. Just the feeling of energy and lyric. She stepped into a twist or swing without fear of consequence because there was no way for this to be anything but good. 

Michael watched her, reeling. He had kissed that length of arm, left his mark on that expanse of back, he knew she could burn but never imagined that she could exhibit such sense of grace. Yet here she was and all he could think was, "You cannot tell the dancer from the dance." 

And then her eyes flew open in rage and he realized he had spoken aloud. 

He tried to explain, "Liz called me -told me to pick you up-" 

"Did she mention the part about spying on me?" 

No, I didn't mean to, it was just so-" 

"Private." 

He understood. "I'm sorry, Maria. I never meant to disturb you, but I couldn't stop watching you. You were hypnotic, beautiful." 

"Who are you and what have you done with spaceboy?" 

And then she smiled and he knew it would be all right. "So you thought it was beautiful?" 

"Yeah." He jammed his hands into his jacket pockets. They were empty now; he hadn't replaced the bottle of cypress oil. "So, uh, how long have you been dancing?" 

"All my life. But just started up again, technically. And it's like I don't understand why I ever stopped. Dancing gives me this whole sense of...I'm not sure I know how to explain it, ya know." 

"I know. It's how I feel when I paint. It's special." 

They shared a smile. Michael crowed inside, he'd missed this. He had his powers, he had friends, it was a day for brightness. And maybe, just maybe Maria and him could work out now. Truthfully, he'd missed her. However he tried to deny it, there was something about her that important. She had this strength you couldn't ignore, and she listened to him as if he was significant. She made him feel good. 

And then it all clicked for him; didn't he deserve her? He did. 

He cupped her face and pulled her in before she could react and the feel of her body still wet with sweat was electric. Her mouth was still as soft and giving, she opened her mouth to him, he responded, and then she bit his tongue. Hard. 

She was out of his arms and furious. 

"Godash," his tongue was bleeding. Taking a moment to heal it, he said, "God damn!" 

"Oh, you're mad at me?" 

"What was that?" 

"Make up your mind, Michael. You can't just push me away and then kiss me like that. No, you know what, don't make up your mind. I don't need your opinion. I am so tired of this shit, Michael. So tired." 

Michael was stunned. Maria didn't cuss. _'Swearing is just being lazy.'_ Maria never swore at him, she baited and fired salvos, because she cared enough about him to be creative. Maria obviously didn't care anymore. 

"No, it's not like that," he swallowed his pride, "I want to hold you. I've always wanted to hold you. I just don't want to hold you down." 

"Oh, that's fucking rich. Did you drag yourself away from Ulysses long enough to watch 90210?" 

"Why are you being like this?" 

"I don't know, maybe, because you're an asshole." 

His expression was pained, "Look, what I said at the soap factory. I'm sorry. We can still work things out." 

"It's too late, I already forgave you for that. You want to be alone, go be alone by your own damn self. Just because you leave me bruised, doesn't mean I'm gonna crawl off and die offstage." 

"That's why we belong together. You're a fighter. We're of the same ilk." 

"No. We're not," she looked him in the eye. "Whatever ilk you're from, I'm confident I'm from a different one." And then she sneered, "Oh, did I say 'ilk,' because I meant species." 

"Maria," he looked deep into her eyes, trying to convey his need for her. 

She spat at him, "Save the soulful stares for Max, I'm not Liz." 

"You've got that right," he muttered under his breath. He would make her understand. "They have that whole let's fall into each other gently mentality. I like what we have. We don't have to be starcross'd." 

"What we have?" She smiled, feral, "Don't get all intense, Michael. I'm only sixteen, I want to date, not be involved. I'm young and I plan to enjoy it. That's the way it's gotta be." 

"So we date, I can handle that." 

"Gee, I don't think so. When I said date, I didn't mean you, I meant other guys. Human men." She walked up to him, close enough to kiss and whispered sweetly, "Let's just be friends." 

Neither Solace Nor Resolation 

Max was worried about Michael. He didn't exactly think Michael would take on the FBI by himself, but his sudden disappearance was disturbing. Michael could have been kidnapped...His friend had never shown up at his own party; neither had Maria. But when Michael hadn't shown up at Max's window and Maria had denied any contact, Max had even visited the trailer park. He hadn't really expected Michael to be there, he hated the place, but it a possibility. He'd even skipped Biology on the off chance that Michael had showed for school before ten o' clock. 

So when he saw Michael nonchalantly eating fudge ice cream with tabasco in the librarian's office, Max was justifiably upset. 

"Max?" Michael jumped up; he'd gotten used to thinking of the library as his. 

"I'm not gonna get caught doing anything, Maximilian. I'm just sitting here with my ice cream," he spooned up more. 

"Yes, with tabasco sauce! Michael, someone will see and be suspicious. Let's get out of here before you get in trouble." 

"No." 

"Michael," Max's voice shaded to warning. It seemed that the nice Michael of the weekend was gone, and the brooder was back. And Max didn't understand why. 

"Max, look, I'm good here. Why don't you leave?" 

"Because I'm trying to watch your back." 

"Young man," an authoritarian voice came from Max. "Shouldn't you be in class?" 

"Uh..." 

Ms. Clarke greeted Michael more warmly, "Hello, Michael, I see you found the ice cream." 

With a parting glare, Max left the library. 

"So, who was that?" She sat down in the chair opposite him. This was, by now, a familiar arrangement. They would sit and conversed amiably, usually sharing tabasco and a form of chocolate. Ms. Clarke regarded Michael's twin gustatory inclination as a sign of that he was meant to be her helper. Nothing more. Michael had grown more comfortable with her over the few weeks, sharing his progress with painting and other anecdotes. He never spoke about his foster father and their low socio-economic status. And she didn't seem to care. Roswell wasn't a huge town, he knew that if she did care, she could ask around and find out about his reputation. But even assuming that she had, she hadn't kicked him out. 

In turn, Ms. Clarke shared her life with him. Faculty gossip and family stories. She came from one of Roswell's first families, from before the '47 crash so she viewed the town's alien hang-up from a unique perspective. 

Michael sighed, "That was Max Evans." 

Ms. Clarke frowned. She'd imagined Michael's closest friend to be more pleasant, less brooding. "Oh." She didn't push. 

"He's just worried right now. Liz, that's the girl he makes googly eyes at?" 

"I remember." 

"She threw me a party and I sorta didn't show. And I sorta didn't tell anyone where I was all weekend. They thought something happened to me." 

Ms. Clarke watched Michael. She'd gotten familiar with his body language and knew something deeper was bothering him. However, the librarian also knew that it would be best for Michael to volunteer information. The best thing for _her_ to do right now would be to listen. 

Michael sighed and looked down. "It's this girl." He'd been thinking about their encounter all weekend and still hadn't figured out what had gone wrong. 

"Liz's talkative girlfriend? The blonde." Michael had never really mentioned her. 

"She's sort of an ex-girlfriend." He went slow, unsure of how to share his feelings. "To use the term loosely." 

"Maria." He savored her name. "She affects me. She's, like, uber paranoid. She always smells like cypress oil because she sniffs it when she freaks." He smiled bittersweetly, "It calms her down." 

"And she's gorgeous. Not like Isabel," he looked at Ms. Clarke for recognition. She nodded, "but she's these eyes. Green. Brighter than, than everything. And this mouth. She's always pouting, even when she's laughing.' 

"I mean, the mouth on her." He blushed. "I mean, the way she uses it." He put his head in his hands. "That didn't come out right. She's got this way of talking. You think she's this vapid bubblehead, but she's the only one who can keep up with my smart alec cracks. But at the same time, she's like you." 

Ms. Clarke smiled encouragingly. Michael sounded as if he was never realized these things before. 

"She listens. Really listens. And you should see her dance," he was lost a moment in recollection. "It's like this zone, where she's steam and flood. I never saw anything like it. Plus, she's got this strength. And all of it is amazing and it's like I don't understand how it all fits into one person. She's this girl, and there's no one I'd rather fight with." 

"You're in love with her," the older woman smiled benignly. 

"Yeah. I guess I am." Then he groaned, "Oh, god..." 

"I'm guessing this is the ex-girlfriend portion." 

"She got too close. I couldn't handle it." He combed his fingers through his spiky hair. "I told her, I told her," Michael forced himself to look her straight in the eyes, "I didn't want to get intense. Attached, involved whatever you want to call it." He took a breath, shoved his trembling hands into his pocket. "I was scared. I let her think I didn't care that she was some toy.' 

"I let her go." 

And then Ms. Clarke was handing him a tissue and telling him, "Take your time." 

Michael balled his fist in his pockets; "She makes me into this sop. I don't know if I wanna be that person." 

"It's okay, it's not too late. You can still make it right." 

"No. I can't. Because I hurt her again. I kissed her. I thought it would be okay. We were in this moment, and she looked so right. But it wasn't okay. She, she bit me." He looked dumbfounded. 

"Oh, Michael, you're so young," she sympathized. "What you told me -did you tell her?" 

"No."He digested what she was saying before groaning. "I am such failure." 

"Michael!" Ms. Clarke's voice was sharp; she'd never used that tone with him. "Never say that." She punctuated each word with a gesture. "You are incredible." She smiled gently, "Now, go put the ice cream dishes in the back sink, and go. Go find her, Michael." 

He looked up. "What?" 

"I'm a hopeless romantic, now, scoot! Faint heart never won fair maid," she said. 

Michael stood up with a look of determination. 

As he ran the door, she called out, "And no kissing until after you get the girl!" 

*** 

She was drooling slightly onto her textbook when Michael found her in study hall. He smiled. She wasn't so much snoring as softly murmuring. He enjoyed the opportunity to look her over. Skin so fair and creamy. Even in the desert. He reached out a hand to her caress her face. 

He was in her dream: 

> They were back at the rave. But before she'd finally trapped him in the corner. She was talking to Liz; they were searching the factory for something. Him and Max. 
> 
> The real Michael stepped towards Maria, he would tell her now. The truth. 
> 
> But then the band stopped playing and the party hushed. The lead singer stepped up to the mic and said, "Is Maria here? Maria DeLuca?" 
> 
> Maria, in her barely-there seventies revival outfit, moved to the stage. Party-goers, even the drunk ones, had made a path. The trumpet players helped her up before playing a sort of trilling salute. A red carpet rolled out from the door to the makeshift stage. 
> 
> "Maria DeLuca, meet your father!" 
> 
> A handsome man in his forties strode towards her in an impeccable Armani suit. He held his arms open, "Maria, my Maria? I've been looking for you for sixteen years. You're so tall! So lovely! Baby, I understand if you don't want anything to do with me, but, please, give me a chance. I live my life for you. If you're willing to trust me, the limo is waiting outside." 
> 
> "Daddy?" Maria ran into his arms. 
> 
> He held her fiercely, "My daughter. I will never leave you. I love you." 
> 
> They walked out together as the partygoers cheered and threw confetti. Maria got into the limo with the help of her father. Never looking back. Never seeing the rawness in Michael's eyes. 

*** 

The painting was wrong, all wrong. He'd make huge mistakes. The technique was perfect but he looked nothing like Maria's father. 

"Mr. Guerin? It's not time for class yet." Mr. Hinds noticed Michael staring at the painting. He'd given it an A+. 

"I hate him," Michael growled under his breath. Louder, he said, "I hate it." 

"But it's the best work to come out of my classes all year. A formidable enterprise, I was hoping to exhibit it at the state level." 

"No." 

"Mr. Guerin, I must beg you to reconsider." 

"No. I can do better." 

*** 

Michael shed his jacket and brought out his leftover panel and gesso. Never stopping except to ask Mr. Hinds for eggs from the cafeteria. He didn't bother with a sketch. 

His hands edged out, coaxing Maria's father onto the wood. He didn't hate Mr. DeLuca. Mr. DeLuca made Maria happy, he made Maria forget Michael. 

But Mr. DeLuca wasn't perfect. The other painting, it was flawless; but there was no passion there. It was not the labor of love he had striven for. He'd gotten too caught up in methodology and application. So now he fixed it. Little lines around his eyes, Maria's sometimes-feral eyes. He made a man of experience, capable of love. Of making her happy. Of doing everything that Michael could not. 

Michael couldn't stop. He was driven to make this into an act of transcendence. This would be his penance. His silent admission of love and guilt. More than ever, he realized he could not be with her and so he painted. 

Mr. Hinds handed Michael a glass of ice water every hour or so. The teacher recognized, but had never experienced, this frenzy. It sucked Mr. Guerin in and spilled out art. The paintings were similar but for shadows of longing and other inexplicable changes. It was dynamic; he had a prodigy on his hands. 

When Michael finally relented, he could barely encompass what he had done. 

He put down his paintbrush, asked the speechless Mr. Hinds to grade it, and walked out, empty. 

Kindergarten Stories 

*** 

Sugar?" Ms. Clarke held her hand out, "Michael? Sugar?" 

"Huh?" 

"The sugar, you kooky child. Two cups." 

"Oh, sorry." Michael handed the librarian the measuring cup. "I'm just kinda tired." He cracked his neck, "I'm here though. Look, flour." 

Ms. Clarke smiled, "This was a really good idea, Michael. I'm sure your friends will like it." 

"If I can get it, right, I've never baked before. Thanks for helping me." 

"But are you sure they'll like tabasco?" 

"Oh, it'll be great. We like it, don't we?" Michael had decided to make a tabasco tunnel cake. He'd gotten the idea for a chocolate bundt cake with a ring of equal parts fudge pudding and tabasco sauce from the Flying Saucer cakes they served at the Crashdown. Originally, he'd planned on using cake mix, jell-o, and the bottle, but Ms. Clarke had been so enthusiastic he asked for her help. When the day's errands and various other duties had been accomplished, she'd marched him of to the home ec lab. 

Michael figured it for a peace making gesture. Max was still a little mad for looking like a jerk in the library. 

"Maybe you should ease off on the painting for a while, if you're tired. It takes a lot out of you. Emotionally, I mean, it's exhausting. Here," she put the spatula in his hands. "Pour half the batter in the pan, then the pudding and tabasco. Yes, you're doing it right. Now, put the rest of the batter on top. Great, now we'll pop it in the over and voila!" 

Michael held the pan gingerly and tried not to burn himself. He stifled a yawn. "Huh, maybe I should take a nap." 

"Yes, you should. The cake will still rise if you're sleeping." Ms. Clarke rummaged in a trunk by the sewing machine and pulled out a red and green patched quilt. Leading Michael to the Family Like part of the room, she laid him and the quilt down on an old orange couch. 

"I feel like I'm in kindergarten," he mumbled. Secretly, he relished the attention. Hank had never tucked Michael in. He could admit to himself, sometimes he wished Ms. Clarke was his mother or even his grandmother. When he was with her, he didn't feel an unsteady or discarded. Alone, he could admit that he liked who he was when she was around. Maybe he could have been that person if someone had loved him. 

"Then I guess I'll have to tell you a story," she ran her fingers through his spiky hair. Ms. Clarke smiled, she had a knack for choosing the special children. She conceded that all children were special, but her helpers tended to the incredible. Insightful, talented, good-natured. She knew how to pick them. Michael Guerin could go far, if he wanted. If, when his senior year rolled around, he was interested, she would bring up art school. 

Her grandfather, great-grandmother, and several other relatives for the last hundred years had attended the Corcoran school in Washington DC. He could get there on his own merits, assuredly, but recommendations from alumni would assure they would come begging after him. 

"This is the story of a family, the Grijalvas. The Grijalvas were limners, painters, and they lived in the duchy of Tira Virte. But they were not just painters, they were special. The art ran in their blood, but more than that, some of the males of their line possessed magic. What they painted, came to be..." 

A soft rumble interrupted her. Michael could hear the story later. She pulled the covers up to his chin and rearranged them to cover his feet before standing up. The frosting would not make itself. 

*** 

Isabel rolled her eyes, "You know, Max, you could have just said, 'I want to go make googly eyes at Liz' and it'd be okay." 

"I was hungry." The dark boy smiled sheepishly. 

"But we could have waited for Michael. You peeled out of the parking lot." 

"Oh, he'll find a ride." 

"You're still upset." It was a statement. 

Max was saved from further embarassment by the appearance of their waitress. 

"Hey, guys, what can I get for you?" Liz leaned towards Max. Isabel wondered what it would take to push Liz into her brother's lap. By accident, of course. 

"No dessert." Michael slid into the booth carrying a white cardboard box. 

"No outside food, Michael." Liz pointed to a sign on the wall. 

"Aw, c'mon, Liz. I baked it myself." He lifted up the cover to reveal the fudge glazed bundt cake sitting daintily on a white lace doily. He'd been so refreshed from his nap he'd even made little chocolate leaves. 

Liz was practically drooling, "I'll cut you a deal. If you share, I won't confiscate it." 

"Sure, Liz," he looked up slyly, "didn't know you liked tabasco tunnel cake." 

"Nevermind. Ugh." 

Isabel looked into the box, "How'd you manage that? I didn't know you baked." 

"I'm a Renaissance man. Did you know, little sister, that I am also a proficient airplane pilot, fashionista, and-" 

"Liz!" The blonde's shriek was head splitting. Maria was standing ten feet away, at the door. And she had a new haircut. She had a bang now, and it slanted across her forehead. The back had been shorn and leveled as well. Michael noticed the way it exposed her unblemished neck. He remembered the time she'd had to wear that ridiculous turtleneck in the middle of a heatwave 

Maria ran to her friend's side, "Guess what! No, you'll never guess! He called me! Again!" 

The two girls let out another joyous shriek and jumped up and down. 

"What's up, Maria," Isabel asked. Though she had grown closer to Maria and Liz, she knew nothing about the new development. She flashed a look at Michael, who looked like he was caving in on himself. 

"Oh, hey, Isabel, Max." Maria waved and glanced at her watch, "Look at the time! I gotta change into uniform. Duty calls." 

As the door swung shut behind Maria, Michael looked inquiringly at Liz. 

"It's not my secret to tell." 

"Liz?" Max was a little hurt. They had no secrets between them. Or at least, not on his side. 

She nearly crumbled, "It's between Maria and her...her god." 

Isabel didn't like the tension, "Hey, Max, let me up," she pushed Max out of the booth and into Liz. "Order for me, I'm gonna call Alex." 

Looking back, she saw Max hold his arms out to Liz for balance. Touching, they stared into each other's eyes. "Just friends," Isabel snorted. 

*** 

Michael watched his best friend make googly eyes at Liz. Thinking maybe, if he had deep brown eyes the soulful stare thing might've worked on Maria. Did brown even do Max's eyes justice? He thought of them critically. They were sorta girly, all delicate long lashes. And they weren't really brown, they were more earthy. Like a furry, woodland creature. Max had Bambi eyes. Yes, earthy -which was funny, considering. 

Max and Liz wrenched there eyes apart when Michael began to heckle them because what was a soulful stare, really. Trite nonsense, people! Okay, he was being just a little harsh. Maybe. But the symmetry of their relationship bothered him. Happy families, looks, smarts -not an ounce of dissidence between them. He respected, but could not understand how they got worked up over each other. 

They probably agreed on everything. And then he smiled, remembering Liz's Xena imitation. He wondered if Max would like to hear about it. 

Liz was okay, but give him a good Maria fight anyday. 

Except for the fact that Maria wasn't even acknowledging him anymore. Sometimes he thought that it was good that way. He'd probably end up just like her dad anyhow, abandoning... 

At least, that bastard would at least get in Maria's slapping distance before she turned her back on him. 

"Michael, hey, man, you there?" Max was shaking him. 

"Uh, yeah." 

"You wanna go somewhere?" 

"Done staring already? That was quick." 

*** 

"Isabel, grab my hand and I'll pull you up. Did you really have to wear those shoes?" 

"Play nice, Maximilian." 

"I don't see you helping me." 

Isabel grunted as her two brothers helped her up the rock, "No one told me we were coming up here. Did you think I wanted to ruin my new shoes?" 

"I forgot how beautiful it is up here," she looked around and began to spin. Michael and Max watched as her golden hair wrapped around her body. Their sister: the whirlwind, the brat, the Elle McPherson of the sophomore class. 

"Uh, dizzy." They laughed and helped her lie down between them on the rock 

This was a good place for them, where the chinks in their armor become rifts. Yawning gulfs. This rock in the middle of the desert, away from the highway, laden with their memories. It was almost a tie to home. Every time they visited they'd say, "We will come back soon." But they don't. They cannot allow these chasms. 

A good place, and deep. 

"Sometimes I feel so porous. Like honeycomb, you know?" Michael spoke up. He is neither whispering, nor speaking. The three are connected by more than love and species, they are linked by survival instincts. They don't like to talk about it, though. "That things are happening all around me, but they wash right through. I don't know sometimes. I don't want to think about it. I want to think about going home and I feel guilty if I think about other things. Because, maybe, I'm being punished. They, I don't know who, won't let us come home because I don't want it bad enough. So I gotta focus." 

Isabel grabbed his hand, she is shivering. "That's not true. We all want it. Our whole lives, there has been nothing else." 

"No, Isabel. He's right, sometimes, when I look at Liz I can't keep home in my mind. She's all I want." 

Isabel pursed her lips, "Then how come you're not with her? That's they way I feel about Alex and if I ever lost him-" 

"That's exactly why. I can't be with Liz until I can be sure I can stay. She deserves better. That's why we need answers. If we could just find our planet-" 

The three hushed, the words were coming too fast now. Too hard. And so, for a while, they drew inside themselves for calm. Each concentrating on the starscape, but trying not to think, "Which one is home?" 

Michael broke the silence, "What if I could paint us there? Home, I mean." 

"What are you talking about?" Max asked. 

"There's this book, _The Golden Key_, where when some people paint certain things, they come true. I know it sounds crazy, but-" 

"Was this a fairy tale, a children's book?" 

"Just listen, Isabel. Okay, just listen." Michael stood up and paced while Max and Is leaned against each other. "I researched. It's not an entirely new concept. There are lots of stories where life imitates art. Like the story where everything written on a magic typewriter comes true. There are movies, too." 

"A John Candy movie," Isabel cut in. "You're going on pop culture, Michael." 

"Look, just hear me out. Our species, our people aren't like humans." 

"Yeah, super powers. No kidding, Captain Deduction." Max gently squeezed Isabel's hand, urging her to be quiet. If Michael was going to start sharing his plans -actually planning- before acting, Max was willing to give it a chance. 

"I mean. Look at all our clues and powers: visions, dreamwalking, glyphs. They're all highly visual. The molecular structure and the healing aren't here nor there but they don't require chanting or words or anything, you know." 

"I guess." 

"Think about it. None of us very good at talking. We can't sing a note. Did you ever think it's because our people don't talk? When we came out of our pods, we couldn't talk." 

"You're right. Isabel, remember, I understood you, but we couldn't talk. Mom and Dad thought we might be deaf." 

"Exactly, Maximilian! Maybe in our original bodies, we don't have the equipment to talk." 

"I still don't know," Isabel's brow was furrowed, "it sounds like a fantasy or something." 

Max spoke up, "Aren't we? A fantasy. Aliens, dreamwalking, telekinesis. Is, we're livin' la vida fantasy here. I don't see why Michael can't try." 

"We don't even know what home looks like!" 

"We could start small. Paint ourselves into Valenti's office and get his files or something." 

Isabel gave in, "I guess, you could at least try. I mean, it wouldn't be dangerous if it didn't work. You'd just have a painting." 

Michael hugged her, "Thank you. Your approval does mean something to me, Is." 

Max joined in the hug, figuring Michael hugs were rare and not to be missed, "Like you wouldn't have done it, anyway. But this way, Isabel gets cake." 

*** 

"...topic may not be an event or a person. It must be relevant in throughout the history of the world. Not just the seventies or the Middle Ages, throughout the history of the world..." 

Michael shook himself, wondering why he'd even bothered to come to class. Mr. Sommers was in full Ben Stein monotone mode. He wanted to fall asleep, like most of the class, but he couldn't. He'd slept so much in the last few days it was almost like he was hibernating, but the dreams hurt. 

His dreams were usually safe. But now they hurt. 

So he stayed awake 

He tried to think about his new project and the approach. In the Grijalva story, the painters had to use items from their body. Hair for brushes. Bodily fluids mixed in the paint. All of the fluids, or just one? Sweat, spit, tears, urine, semen. And just how were they to be mixed? 

"Michael? Hey, man, its lunchtime." Max stood at Michael's shoulder with his books. "Is it cool if we eat here? I gotta stop by locker first and dump all this stuff." 

"Whatever." Michael grabbed his pencil and jacket before heading for the quad, "I'll meet you in the quad." 

When Michael reached their usual group of benches, he stopped. Maria was there, chewing on a cucumber sandwich. They hadn't spoken since the night in the dance studio. He could understand, now, why she hated him. And, it wasn't like he made her life shine any brighter. So he left it all up to her. And she had moved on to some guy who actually called her. 

Michael sat down and stuck his hands in his pockets, "So, uh, hi." 

"Hi." She was aloof and her voice rang with finality. 

"Good sandwich?" 

She chewed. 

He pulled his hands of his pockets and stared at them. "Uh, dance much lately?" 

She swallowed, "Look, since you obviously are not possessed of the necessary social acumen, I'm going to spell this out for you. I'm not your friend. I don't like you. I don't like your hair. Now, go sit over there, far away from me, and return to whatever you were doing with your hands in your pockets." 

Michael knew what he should have done. He should have offered her a head-snapping retort on the way her shirt emphasized her more salient features. Or lack thereof. He should have attacked her anything, her blondeness, her waitresness, her humanity. This was the time to for a killing blow. But he could do nothing but try not to touch her. 

Maria looked away from him, her eyes heavy with loathing until she spotted Isabel and Alex. They sat down at roughly the same time as Max and Liz; the girls began to chatter. Accustomed to Michael's distanced look, Max and Alex discussed the history assignment. 

Michael watched Maria unwrap another cucumber sandwich. Her hands unfolded the wax paper without tearing it. 

"So," Isabel started, "who's been calling you? I want details!" 

Michael looked up. She was glowing. 

She was inaccessible. 

"Oh, my gawd," Queen Isabel's friend Sienna ran up to them. "A limo just pulled up to the school." 

A limo?" Alex asked. 

"Yes, a limo, you...nice boy," Sienna was too much the follower to insult the chosen consort. "I think it's an actor. He was so totally hot." 

"Who?" 

"The guy in the limo. Armani suit. Not old, but more like, aged. Robert Redford, Paul Newman aged." She sighed, "Total hottie." 

The steady babble of the quad became frenzied as news of the limo seeped in. Those swift of mind had already taken into account that there were no limosines in Roswell, this person had been driven in a limo through the desert highway. 

And then it all stopped. The proclaimed hottie appeared on the quad in his proclaimed Armani suit wearing a visitor's pass. 

He looked at the students, a little anxious. His eyes fell on their little group and Sienna let out another sigh. 

"Maria?" 

"Daddy?" 

Maria ran into her father's arms. As he swung her up into his embrace, Liz was explaining everything to Alex, Is, and Max. 

"It's her dad. He first called her a few days ago, he said he'd been looking for her all these years. She wasn't sure how she felt, but after a few phone calls, she asked him to come out here. That's what I couldn't tell you. Sorry." 

Maria was crying and laughing and smiling. Amy DeLuca was right, they had the same laugh, same eyes. 

But, Michael reflected, this was no surprise. That was how he had painted Maria's father. 

Nuclear 

Maria grunted as she pulled at the cardboard box from the closet's top shelf. Just a few more inches and she'd have it. 

"Mooooom!" Maria screamed as the chair began to teeter beneath her 

"Maria DeLuca! We have a step ladder for a reason," Amy put both hands on the back of the chair. 

"I know," she answered penitently. "I just wanted to find this necklace." She jumped off the chair and plopped onto the bed, box in her lap. Shaw pawed through the box of never worn jewelry. Smiling, she found the small vial and slipped the silver chain around the neck. 

"Cedar oil, sweetheart?" Amy didn't want to pry, for both their sakes, but it didn't mean she wouldn'tworry. 

"Bubbles, actually. I thought it'd be a nice touch -you know, festive." Maria stood and smoothed out her cherry red, triple-tiered skirt. "What do you think?" 

Amy sighed. Sometimes the hurt was too much, her life was one extended mistake from birth to...but Maria was no part of that. She loved her daughter and whenever she lapsed into the pain, she kept her daughter at arm's length for fear her daughter would blame her own birth. Whatever betrayals and scarring Amy had exchanged with Jeremy, she could never forget their brief liaison -it had given her this incandescent, sun-crowned daughter. The one right thing she'd done. 

Amy sighed. Sometimes the hurt was too much, her life was one extended mistake from birth to...but Maria was no part of that. She loved her daughter and whenever she lapsed into the pain, she kept her daughter at arm's length for fear her daughter would blame her own birth. Whatever betrayals and scarring Amy had exchanged with Jeremy, she could never forget their brief liaison -it had given her this incandescent, sun-crowned daughter. The one right thing she'd done. 

"You are beautiful, baby. He's always loved that color." 

Maria took her mother into her arms, "He won't be here for a while longer. Let's go sit in the kitchen, I'll fill you in on Alex and Liz's love lives." 

*** 

"Alex and Is get a sort of sick kick out of it. That's why they are, you know. Perverts to the core. I mean, I knew about Alex's proclivities but I had no idea about the princess." Maria shared a wry grin with her mom, "But I don't think Liz and Max really mind being stranded together, alone, every time we all make plans. I'm pretty sure they enjoy it. Max still acts standoff-ish about their relationship that way but he can't help himself from loving her. Liz knows he'll come around so she deals with his dysfunction. It's kind of cute, in a sort gross wet-calf way, I guess." 

Amy looked at her daughter critically. She would be vibrant to a stranger's eyes, but Amy DeLuca knew her baby. "But what about your love life?" 

Maria flinched, "It's no biggie. I've been so busy with dancing and singing and work, you know. Oh, and not to mention, school! I'm way into school these days. I heard it was good for your pores," she cracked. 

Amy smiled. Though Maria's instructors had taken her on as a scholarship student, Amy'd had to scrape up the money for toe shoes and sheet music. But it had all been worth it. Her baby had talent. The recent revival of her interests had also brought color back into her daughter's cheeks. The first time she had heard Maria's plum like voice resonate from the bathroom shower in a year had been a pleasant shock. Amy often wondered what her own life would have been like if she'd found passion in art instead of physical touches alone. 

"Besides, I've got you, Mom, and-" 

The doorbell rang. 

"Go ahead and answer it, honey, I've got start those pies, anyway." 

Maria grabbed her mom's hand, "Mom? Please, say hi this time. It would, it means a lot to me. 

She broke, "Just give me a minute, okay?" 

Maria bounced through the kitchen door and came back with a bouquet of yellow stargazers. The tall man following her held another bunch of the lilies, he handed them shyly to Amy. 

"Hello, Amy," his hand was trembling a little. She studied the man -the years had been kind. And, surprisingly, it didn't hurt to look into those green eyes anymore. She took the flowers and busied herselfwith finding a vase. 

"Jeremy, it's been a long time." 

"Yes," he sat down at the kitchen table holding Maria's small hand. Amy felt relief as she watched him watch their daughter. This man who could not love her would not be leaving her baby. "You look beautiful, though." 

She blushed -but only a little. Maria sat back in her chair, eating it up. Having her father back was more than enough but if there was even the distinct possibility of a nuclear family...they weren't old, she could have a little brother! 

"Jim Valenti is a lucky man." 

Maria stopped dreaming but didn't feel so disappointed when her mother smiled in response, "Thank you." 

An awkward silence. 

He stood up, still holding Maria's hand. "Well, we have to get going. _Rent_ starts at six. I'll have her back by eleven, okay?" 

Amy nodded her assent with a small smile on her face,"Oh, Jeremy?" 

He turned, half-afraid she wouldn't let him take their daughter. 

*** 

She sat down on a the table and barely noticed when he locked the door behind him. Shaking her head in disbelief, Amy reached for the phone. Jim was off duty. 

"And there was this time in middle school when Alex was feeling all unmanly because Isabel's new boytoy was a jock, right?" Jeremy gazed at his daughter fondly from across the table. "So me and Liz dress up in this football uniforms with pads and straps and just everything. We jumped him from after school with a football and played tacked on the front lawn of the school. Me and Liz were so bad, Alex looked like a pro." Maria bounced a little, happily slurping her virgin strawberry daiquiri. It was the closest thing the place had to a milkshake. 

The ambient light of the overhead chandelier swung dancing flares over her head and the table. After the play, the limo had taken them to Mesa dela Estrella, a posh and exclusive restaurant hidden just off the desert highway. Maria had been so excite, she hadn't even known it existed. He smiled over her indecision of menu choices and her incredible grin when he'd told her they could keep coming back until she'd tried everything. 

He laughed at his little girl's story. He didn't know how he'd gone so long without her, "Bet Alex doesn't feel unmanly now. Isabel is his girlfriend, right?" 

Maria nodded as the water cleared away the remains of the walnut salad in preparation for their main course. Jeremy spared the young main a stern glare as the young man stared at his daughter. Not that Jeremy could really blame him, she was incandescent. Sun-crowned. 

"Yup. Hey, uh, Daddy? Would you like to meet them?" 

"Alex and Isabel?" 

"Well, everybody. Alex, Max, Is, Liz," Maria giggled. Is and Liz. And didn't, sometimes, Max call her Izzy? Izzy and Lizzy, she'd have to share that. 

He arched an eyebrow at her, "I thought there were five when I came to your school. Another boy?" 

Maria frowned, "That's Michael Guerin. He's just Max's friend." 

Jeremy noticed the blaze of pain cross her eyes but decided to pursue it later. "Sweetheart, I'd love to meet your friends. Tell you what, why don't we stop by the Crashdown for dessert. Maybe they'll be there?" 

She beamed and squeezed his hand. Just then, the waiter reappeared carrying Chicken Kiev and Turkey Mole. Her eyes widened and her tongue darted across her lips in anticipation. 

He laughed, "But there will be no eye-contact with the waiter. I see the way he's looking at you." 

Maria blushed as the waiter rushed away from their table, "Oh, Dad! Don't embarrass me like that!" 

"But, favorite daughter, isn't that what fathers do?" 

"Favorite daughter," she arched her brow in a way reminiscent of his own. "Aren't I your only daughter? I mean, I am, aren't I?" 

He took her chin in his and looked into the green eyes that were as clear as his own, "My only, ever. My favorite, always." 

*** 

His blonde woman-child had fallen asleep on the way to the Crashdown so Jeremy carried her up the porch and rang the doorbell. 

"Maria?" Amy's voice was sleep-mazed. 

"It's Jeremy," he whispered. "Maria fell asleep." 

She unlocked the door and ushered him inside. She showed into their daughter's room and tucked the blanket over her after he laid her down. For a moment they both looked at Maria with absolute love, then a flash of what might have been. Had things gone differently, this could have been a nightly ritual. 

"Amy," he whispered, but not the way he had yearsbefore. We need to talk." 

She nodded and led him into the living room. Their past had been whirlwind. They'd met at a California redwood rally. The air between them had been charged with passion and urges -but it had not been a tender thing. They had both known it, but in youth, the strong attraction was undeniable. They had fought and made up again and again for months. And when he'd told her he was leaving for Alaska, for minta trees and polar bears and that she would not be joining him, she hadn't been sad. But she had told him the truth, she was pregnant. He accused of making it up to traphim. Then he left. 

The pregnancy had been rough, physically and mentally. Eighteen, she had nowhere to go. And she didn't know which hurt more, the rejection of accusation. The scorn of being an unwed mother and the hardship of providing had nearly devastated her. God knew that sometimes she drank too much. She knew, now, that it had never been love but the truth was no less bitter. 

They sat down, looking at each other. Amy waited for him to speak. This man couldn't hurt her anymore; she was afraid, however, for her daughter. Though she'd witnessed the love she'd seen in his face, she couldn't stop thinking of her baby. 

"Amy, I have to leave." 

Oh, god, she'd heard those words before. 

But this time, she would fight. 

"No." 

"I have to. It's business. I promised the firm to end this deal before I retired." 

"No. You are not leaving my daughter, Jeremy. I swear to god I will shoot and stew you before you hurt Maria." 

Incredibly, he laughed. "I wasn't planning on abandoning her, Amy. But I wanted to ask you first before I asked Maria. I want, Amy, can I take her with me? Please?" 

Amy was shocked, "Where?" 

"Europe. The business part is going to be in England, but I figured we could make a tour of it. Visit the continent, it could be educational." Fiercely, he added, "I can't make up for those years, Amy, but I will cherish her." 

Amy watched him closely, saw his desperation. She considered what it must have felt like, she could afford kindness. "You have my permission. But youstill have to ask Maria." 

"Thank you, Amy!" He hugged her briefly, lifting her off her feet. "You don't know how much this means to me! I'll take great care of her!" 

She smiled and shooed him out of the door. 

He walked backward towards the limo, still shouting, "Tell her I love her! Tell her I'll meet her friends tomorrow! And tell her I love her! A lot, okay? Amy, don't forget! More than anything!" 

Hello Goodbyes 

Maria sank into the cool and firm seat in the back of the limo surrounded by the deep smell of leather. For Maria, leather spoke of the past -something for which she'd always felt a lack. No more. She was the favorite daughter of a father now -not that her mother's love was worth less, it was just different. Her father -who had a name and a limo like right out of adolescent dreams. It would've been enough if he'd been broke and disinterested in her, but this man was everything she'd ever wanted in her dreams of family bliss. 

But the limo was nice, too. Goodbye, Volkswagen Jetta. Hello, sleek, shiny, and running limousine. Finally, a car that didn't suck. 

_"Your car sucks!" "And so do you."_

Another good thing about her father: in Europe, there was no Michael. She would be so far away, it would be like being on a whole different planet. 

She hummed softly to herself as the limo pulled up to the school. 

*** 

"Lizzy! Alex, where's your better half?" She ruffled his hair before enveloping them both in a power hug. 

"Whoa, air," Liz gasped for breath. 

Maria grinned sheepishly, "Sorry, just happy to see you." 

"Oh, no," Alex returned. "That's not a happy to see you look. That is the same look from...,"Alex grimaced, struggled with the memory, then snapped his fingers in triumph. "First time you beat the crap out of Kyle!" 

"Yeh, I did sort of mop up, huh?" 

"Last time he ever tried to take my dodgeball." Alex fluttered hit eyelashes outrageously, "My hero." 

Maria sniffed back some tears, "God, I'm gonna miss you. You are the best things in this one-horse town." 

Liz put an arm around her best friend, "It's okay, Maria, we understand. You have to go, who else is going to feed me and Alex's need for cheesy souvenirs." 

"She's right. I'm talking collectible silver spoons and stuffed animals. Actually, what I really want is some lederhosen." Alex did a little jig in front of his locker. 

Maria smiled, "So, Liz, I take it you want a dirndl?" 

"Oh, yeah, that's me. A little Alpine milkmaid," Liz fluttered her eyelashes in a much more attractive way than Alex had. 

"Hey, what about me?" Max said as he and Isabel joined the group. 

"For you, I'm thinking a beret." 

Alex wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, "Zee French, zey are zee best luhv-erz! Eh, mon cheri, Liz?" 

Max and Liz blushed; Isabel threw her head back in laughter. The Ice Princess, Maria reflected, would never have done that. Alex had softened her defenses, let Isabel find herself secure in his unconditional love. 

She would miss her Czechoslovakian friends, she admitted. It was like they fit perfectly into the little group Alex and Liz had formed in elementary school. Max and Is, anyhow. 

Maybe the reason Michael didn't was herself. She wasn't like Alex or Liz, one to comfort or smooth things over despite rejection. Maria, even with two parents, had her own defenses 

The warning bell rang out, disturbing the path of her musings. 

"So, uh, I'll see you guys at lunch?" 

You're not coming to geometry?" Is arched a perfect brow. 

"I leave in four days, yeh, I'm going to waste my time in that pit of despair?" Maria arched her own (no less perfect) brow. "Besides, I've got to do some paperwork. Return this book from the library," she flashed the cover of Grapes of Wrath at them. 

"I leave in four days, yeh, I'm going to waste my time in that pit of despair?" Maria arched her own (no less perfect) brow. "Besides, I've got to do some paperwork. Return this book from the library," she flashed the cover of Grapes of Wrath at them. 

Maria tucked the book back in her messenger bag, "Yeah, I sort of never returned it. Truthfully, I didn't find it until last night when I reclaimed my room." 

"Reclaimed?" Max inquired. 

"You know, like from the wilderness," Liz laughed brightly. She looked down at her watch, "Oh, guys, we have to go. Unlike Ms. European Vacation over there, we have class." 

"Go ahead, I'll check you all later," Maria agreed as she turned towards the library. Though the halls were empty, she walked close to the walls, running her fingers lightly along the cool plaster. Four more days, Friday never seemed more far away. Finally, she had found something better for her than Roswell. 

_Substitute a spaceship for a limo, and you know what I mean._

Maria faltered, nearly colliding with the library entrance as the memory flashed before steeling herself. I don't need this. I've got a father and a mother and -and Michael would do just fine on his own. He had Isabel and Max and his powers and his godamned stone wall. 

*** 

The difference that marked the library from the rest of Roswell High (besides the books and emptiness and the accompanying quiet) was the light. The wall that joined it to the building was common plaster, but the two springing from it were glass connected by a panel of stained glass that looked like it belonged in a cathedral. 

Shards of pale buttery gold, prismatic bone, and diaphanous windowpane swept through each other in a random, wild pattern. Maria saw herself moving through the beams, becoming a part of it. She could hear the soft, insistent pulse of rhythm -she could put words to that music; it would be like the sea slapping against sand. So very wild and akin to herself. 

"Beautiful, isn't it?" A voice interrupted. 

She turned around, unconsciously clutching her bag. 

The bearer of the voice held out a hand, "Hi. I'm Ms. Clarke, the librarian." 

Maria shook it with as much grace as she could muster with her eyes once again planted on the stained glass. "It's gorgeous. I never knew..." 

"But you know now," Ms. Clarke said gently. "It's enough." 

With those words, Maria firmly remembered where she was. Pulling the book out of her bag, she said abashedly, "I'm returning a book. I have fines. Big fines." 

Amazingly, the librarian laughed. "Ah, a lamb returns to the fold. Thank you." 

That was it. No nagging or muttering about the uselessness of teenagers. Maria smiled as the woman punched the computer keys rapidly, "What do I owe you?" 

"Thirty-five even." Ms. Clarke put the book on the nearby shelving cart. 

"Wow, is that, like, a record? Do I get a ribbon?" 

The woman laughed, "Not by a long shot, I've still got an APB from a book checked out in '79," she looked at the screen and cleared it, "Maria DeLuca. Maria. I know that name from somewhere." 

"It's a fairly common name." 

"No, I don't think that's it." Ms. Clarke's face clouded over briefly, "That's okay. I'll remember eventually. Now, what else can I do for you?" 

"Well, I've got these checkout-papers I need to clear. I guess I can get them done now," Maria pulled the multi-colored sheets out of her bag. 

The librarian grimaced good-naturedly, "Where's my young helper when I need him? I'm sure he wouldn't mind having this stack shoved on him since you're so lovely -Maria DeLuca! You're Michael's Maria!" The woman's smiled widened infinitely. 

"Oh, I don't have a boyfriend." A beat, "Michael Guerin?" 

"Yes, he's my library aide. He's a gem!" Ms. Clarke gushed while inconspicuously inspecting the small blonde. Michael was a very special young man, after all. While she had had no doubt of Michael's good taste, this girl who had completely enchanted him interested her. "And so talented. Do you see that?" 

The librarian pointed to a forty by thirty painting of orchids curling around a trailer. The trailer was dirty and old but surrounded by the flowers as it was...sort of like what Liz said, but opposite: wilderness reclaiming. The painting shocked her -power without fanfare and something rooted...admittedly, the motif was rehashed and old-school, but the work remained unpretentious. It was generous in color, acrobatic in scope, so undiluted... 

God, Maria thought, to be that beautiful. 

Finally, outloud, she said, "Michael did that." To herself, she thought, this is one of the reasons I love him. In front of a painting like this, she would not lie. 

Turning away from the painting and its implications, she said, "This place is something else. It's just gorgeous. I wish I'd known-," 

Ms. Clarke put a kind hand to the girl's cheek, "It's okay. If I may ask, where are you going?" 

"London," she answered distractedly, "Then Italy and Spain, some other places." 

"There's beauty there, too," Ms. Clarke said, seemingly aware that Maria wasn't speaking on the surface. 

Hard to believe there was any left for the rest of the world after this room had taken it's lion's share. 

"Oh," Maria wasn't sure what else to say. "Could you tell Michael I said, hello then?" It seemed unfair to visit this place which belonged to Michael without his awareness. 

"Why don't you go say hi to him yourself. I think he's sleeping in the stacks back there." Ms. Clarke smiled, "Just give him a little shove, okay?" 

Maria smiled back, not able to remember she'd felt this comfortable with an adult. Not since Grandma Claudia... 

The light sound of snoring could be heard from around the corner in Reference. Running her hands against the book spines, she slowed. What would she say? Sorry, I intruded on your private sanctuary and haven't acknowledged your presence in a two weeks, by the way, have I told you I'm leaving the country? 

She was pretty sure he already knew she was going, what with Is and Max, but he'd never said anything. Not that she would have stuck around to listen, she walked away when he was within speaking distance because it was so so hard not to touch him when he was near. 

In the days when he touched her like it was necessary and not just about groping, she had thought that, maybe, there was something to be cherished between them. The way they moved together was too searing to be anything less. 

She sighed and decided to leave. Better, this way she would not have to remember craving for and never receiving a heartfelt goodbye, some confessional spar of feeling. 

She wanted him to miss her. To say so. 

Maria saw herself : 

> Above a crystal bier crowned with honeysuckle and pink delphinium, Michael laid quietly. She reverently caressed his cold cheek and leaned into him, careful of the flowers. 
> 
> When she kissed him, manna fell from the sky onto grass. 
> 
> A castle appeared and a black jagged tower, which fell. The castle spired into the sky, gleaming like a pearl. 
> 
> They stood together on the water, which sang to them. He pulled her in and whispered, "You came." 

"Maria?" Michael shook himself, he'd awakened to find her staring dumbly at the stained glass wall behind him, one hand placed on a bookshelf holding her upright. 

"Oh, I just stopped in to return a book and the lady up front told me you were here so I wanted to say hi," she responded quickly. "But I can see that you're sleeping, so I'm gonna go. Okay?" 

"Sure," her appearance in the library evoked somewhat a different reaction than Max's. 

"Hey, I just wanted to tell you, I hope you have a good trip." 

So he knew. 

He went on, "I'm just glad one of us got out." 

She hid her face from his smile, he was glad. "Thanks, I'll send you a postcard or something, okay." 

She fled, taking only a moment to say goodbye to the librarian. 

"Uh, I have to go get some more paperwork cleared but thanks, you know, for showing me the library." 

Ms. Clarke looked up from her computer and cup of cafe au lait. "No problem, do you want a mug before you go." 

Maria looked closer, it was suspiciously pink as if something red had been added... 

She shook her head, twisted Snow White daydreams and suspecting the librarian of being Czechoslovakian? She had to get out of this town. 

Later, sighing before a mirror with the benefit of bathroom lighting, she splashed water on her face. He was glad she was leaving. 

*** 

"Max! Stop being such a hog!" Isabel snorted ungracefully and grabbed the bottle of Tabasco from her brother. He snatched it back and bopped her on the shoulder before she could uncap it. War declared, the two began to tug on the sauce bottle. 

Maria, Liz, and Alex watched in complete amusement as the siblings battled. 

"You know," Alex began conversationally, "I've always wondered why you don't you just use ketchup like normal people-" 

"Normal humans," Isabel interrupted despite her attack on Max. 

"Let me finish. And then use your almighty molecular powers to change it into Tabasco. Less unsightly bottles that way. And much cheaper. Not to mention, inconspicuous." 

Alex caught the bottle as both Evans' loosened their grip on it. They looked at each other in amazed silence as Alex's idea soaked into their brains once again setting Liz and Maria into laughter. 

Alex patted Max on the shoulder and said comfortingly, "You will learn, young grasshopper, one day you will be as wise as me. One day, grasshopper." 

Liz gave her best friend a sidelong glance, noticing the marks of hard scrubbing on her fair skin. She nudged her softly and mouthed, "What's wrong?" 

"Nothing," she replied a smile on her face. "Just mentally packing, you know." 

Liz hugged Maria, not believing her. 

*** 

> Above a crystal bier crowned with apples and rampion, Michael laid quietly. She reverently brushed his lips with her fingers, tracing the length his smile would take and leaned into him carefully. 
> 
> When she kissed him, salt fell from the sky onto grass and gathered on his still form. 
> 
> White as bone, it encased him like a moth in cocoon. 
> 
> A black tower appeared and a spiring pearl castle, which fell. The tower plunged cloudward into the starless sky. 
> 
> She stood alone in the water, which was clogged with salt. She clawed at the cocoon refusing to acknowledge thehis contented smile traced through stiff salt. 
> 
> After the friction of her hands and the cocoon had grated her flesh she noticed the salt mixing with the blood, stinging. Her body shaking violently, drops of it fell, slowly, into the still waters. Then the faces appeared beneath the sheen of water, howling: 
> 
> _You took you took you took_

Maria woke up, sweating and thirsty. Asking herself, "What the hell?" 

Collapse 

"-never went home last night." 

"-still in yesterday's clothes." 

"Oh, god-" 

"-alright?" 

"-can't stay, gotta be moved, now." 

"-collapsed in our driveway." 

"-so scared right now." 

*** 

Moving through the crowds of people in the hall prior to the warning bell, Maria felt weak. She'd never had such full-bodied dreams before and they scared at her. She'd been surprised to find her hands were not ragged strips but the dissonance of Michael encased in salt was so much as to keep the surprise pleasant. 

She hadn't experienced anything so horrifyingly graphic since Isabel had made a guest appearance- 

"Oof!" Maria fell to the ground, cogent enough to be glad she wasn't carrying books. 

"Oof!" Maria fell to the ground, cogent enough to be glad she wasn't carrying books. 

"Oh, hey, Maria," Max said distantly as he helped her up. 

"No harm, no foul." 

Well, okay then," Max turned away 

"What's your hurry?" 

"No hurry, just class. School, you know?" 

The five-minute bell rang. 

"Actually, Max, I wanted to ask you about Michael." 

He looked her in the eyes. She noticed the tense set of his shoulders. 

"What do you mean?" 

"Um, is something wrong I mean, you know, he's good right?" 

"He tends to be self-sufficient when he's not being, uh, Michael-ish." 

Ordinarily, Maria would have laughed. "Oh, okay." 

He waited until he turned right before he broke into a run towards the parking lot, vaguely making out her parting, "Are you sure?" 

*** 

"Maria DeLuca?" 

"Hi, I came back." She smiled half-heartedly, one-hand still planted on the stained glass wall. 

"I'm glad, I've got your paperwork done." Ms. Clarke led her to the office. "I had that wall put in specially. Years ago, I wasn't sure why." 

"It's comforting," Maria responded. Though she'd slept hours last night, she was tired but too terrified to fall asleep. 

"Actually, Maria, I wanted to ask if you've seen Michael today? He was supposed to come in today and he never came. It's never happened before 

"I haven't seen him either." She hadn't seen anyone today, except for Max in the hall. 

"Well, do you think you could take him something for me?" Ms. Clarke pointed to a paper-wrapped square, "Michael's art project, Mr. Hinds said he didn't dare keep it in the classroom." 

"Sure thing." 

"Thanks, Maria. Michael's lucky to have such a good friend." 

"Yeah..." 

Ten minutes later, the blonde was breaking into Liz's bedroom through the window. She had walked because she couldn't very well take the limousine on a truant's quest. Finding no one there, she went on to the Evans'. None of them had been in school. Not Michael, Liz, Isabel, Max, or Alex. No way was this a coincedence. 

Even though she'd grown up in Roswell, Maria could appreciate the New Mexico sun. She was wearing four-inch platforms that had never been meant for anything more strenuous than crossing your legs. Why the hell did Alex have to live so far away? 

She could see the jeep through the Whitman's open garage. What is going on, she thought as she collapsed on the doormat. 

*** 

"I can barely see him," Isabel said again. 

"What do you mean you can't see him? He's right there." Alex patted a comatose Michael on his bed 

"No, she's right," Max answered tersely. "He's fading and I can't sense him." 

"Try touching him," Liz suggested. There had to be a reasonable answer for this. "Maybe it's an alien thing." 

Max's hand swept right through chest and didn't stop until it hit the comforter. 

"What are we gonna do, Max?" Isabel clung to Alex. "How can we heal him if we can't touch him?" 

Liz spoke up, finding an inner calm contrary to Isabel's desperate sobbing. "Is he...resting?" 

"I can't tell, Liz, I can't even...," Max broke off, shaken by his friend's condition. 

Alex let go off Isabel and placed her in Max's arms. They needed to touch each other right now. He put his hand over Michael's chest, then his mouth, "He's breathing steadily. Shallowly, but steady." 

"So do you think he's dreaming? Because maybe if he's dreaming, Isabel can...check it out?" 

"So do you think he's dreaming? Because maybe if he's dreaming, Isabel can...check it out?" 

"Not Isabel, I'll do it. It's my responsibility." 

"No, Max. I'm better at dreamwalking than you." She went to lie down next to Michael but offered one hand to both Max and Alex. Her brother and her boyfriend both squeezed her tight and Liz placed herself at the foot of the bed. 

*** 

_pump  
pump  
pump_

*** 

Liz had to hold down Isabel's legs once she started convulsing. 

Clouds of steam began to billow from Michael's still form. It was the sort of steam that made your skin blister if you put your face over an open boiling pot. Liz could feel the sores on her cheeks and saw them on Alex, too, through the steam. 

"Alex, we have to get out of here," she screamed, trying to ignore the pain. 

"We have to take her with us -she's starting fade, too!" 

"Downstairs, hurry!" 

"I won't leave him," Max screamed as he opened the door for them. 

Liz and Alex practically tumbled down the stairs holding Isabel's swollen body. Panting, they dropped her on the couch and watched as the steam began to fill the rest of the house. 

"Water," Liz rasped. "I'm dry." 

"Me, too," Alex said agreed. He had difficulty pouring them drinks. He looked down at his blistered hands; "This was not the best idea." 

"Water helps, we should bring some up to Max." 

"Go ahead, I'll try to get some into Is-" 

A scream split through the dissolving steam. Max's. 

*** 

"I had to," Max whispered, his entire body glowing silver. Like Isabel, his eyes were sunken and it looked like they were going to slide off the couch. 

"I couldn't get in." Isabel repeated, "I couldn't get in. It was like, there wasn't anything to get into. I've never felt anything like that." 

She paused, "But it hurt." 

Liz sighed; Max had healed all of them though he had been exhausted; the steam had disappeared through open windows. She looked at him, "What happened?" 

"After you left, I could see him, touch him. It helped, I thought that if I did, maybe it'd...help enough." 

"He drained us," Isabel said. "Why?" 

"I CHOOSE HIM!" Michael's scream was deafening. Alex and Liz raced upstairs to find him thrashing, moaning. 

Liz grabbed a sock out of Alex's top drawer, and moving quickly, stuffed it in Michael's mouth. "Calm down," she crooned, "You'll choke yourself." 

By degrees, he subsided. By the time Isabel and Max had made it up the stairs, supporting each other, Liz had taken out the sock. 

Max took Michael's hand. Isabel sat next to him on the bed and cradled his face. Running her fingers through his hair she asked, "What's happening, Michael? Do you know." 

Michael put a finger to his lips, "Can't tell you, Izzy. Secret." His eyes lit up faintly and he leaned forward conspiratorially, "I did it. Are you proud of me?" 

The four exchanged confused looks. 

"What did he do?" Alex voiced for all of them. "What did he do to himself?" 

*** 

> Water churned around her waist. The faces had swallowed up Michael; she dove down through droves of small jawed fish until her hair caught in the sharp coral. It lashed her as the waves tossed her body back and forth, she broke against it losing a bit of her scalp. She ignored the sea salt working its way into wound, she was deep now where the fish had no eyes. Crawling on the ocean floor, she scraped her knees on shell and became lost in the algae. 
> 
> It was too dark, she couldn't see anything. She could feel faces made out in water, they pressed against her body buoying her up, carrying her. They had little teeth that scratched when they groaned wordlessly. 
> 
> They brought her into a hall lit by phosphorescent slugs. Bonelessly, she drifted to Michael when the emerald scales of his tail blinded her. She held out her arms. She tried to call out but the water rushed into her, it filled she was going to be torn apart. 
> 
> Then a great wave swept through the hall, bearing her back up to the sky. She could see the ruins of a castle and a black tower's base, both smothered by the white salt sea. 
> 
> Before the sea crumbled and the sky with it, she saw one spot of color. The observation was almost divorced from herself: Distantly, was Michael that in the embrace of her wave's twin? She only saw his emerald tail bobbing up and down. 

Maria gasped for air when the dream broke. 

It took her a moment to realize she was lying face down in the Whitman's welcome mat. Gathering herself she rapped on the door. 

"Maria?" Alex was surprised to see her, school had not let out yet. 

"What's going on, Alex?" She shouldered her way past him. "What the hell is going on? What's wrong with Michael? Where is he?" 

"Maria-" 

"Why would something be wrong?" Isabel cut in, suspicious. She was still, as ever, protective of her brothers. As much as she liked Maria, the girl had still shown up here without having been informed. 

"Why are you all here then?" Maria stepped closer to the taller girl, anger edging into her voice. 

Alex tried to placate them both, "Why don't we all just sit down?" 

Isabel's eyes narrowed, "You," she hissed. "What have you done?" Alex had to step between them to keep Isabel from clawing at Maria. 

"Me? What have I done? I'm a victim here I never wanted any of you in my sleep! I never asked for weird, freaky mermaid dreams to pull me out of consciousness! Where's Michael? If he's the one who done this, I want it fixed!" 

Alex took Maria aside, "Look, Maria, you're angry. Isabel's angry. Why don't we just take some time and I'll tell you what's going on later. Deal?" 

"Alex," she snarled warningly. 

Firmly, he replied, "Later. I promise." 

"Fine," she looked down at her watch. "I gotta meet my dad anyway." 

*** 

"He's gone," Max said quietly when Isabel returned upstairs. 

"No," she grabbed at where Michael should have been. 

"I can still see him, Isabel, just barely," Liz affirmed. 

"It's Maria," Isabel said. 

"Now, you don't-" 

"You heard her yourself, Alex! She's stealing his dreams somehow." 

"Maria wouldn't do that." 

"Liz is right, Is." Max held his sister. "I'm scared, too. But you remember what Michael said, that he did something?" 

"That's vague," Alex said. 

"And he asked if you were proud," Liz frowned. "Was there anything he was trying to do." 

"Oh, my god, Max, the painting." Isabel grabbed her head between her hands. "That night, on the rock...do you think he did it?" 

Did what, Isabel?" Alex asked. 

"He was going to try to paint something into life." Max explained, "He got the idea from some fairy tale. I thought he gave it up, though. He never mentioned it after that night." 

"He never mentioned the dreams either." 

"What night?" Liz asked. 

"The day he made that cake," Max tried to remember. "What if he did and whatever kind of monster he created is stealing his life force?" 

"Whoa," Alex said. "Don't you think that's kind of far fetched? It sounds like a bad B-movie. You know, siphoning alien brains." 

"We don't know," Is said. "Anything is possible." 

"Okay," Liz spoke up. "So we go and find Michael's paintings and destroy them?" 

They stopped to stare at him. Finally Max answered, "Let's not even deal with that thought yet. Alex and I will drive to the school and see if he's got anything there. He wouldn't have left anything at Hank's. You two stay and watch Michael." 

"What about Maria?" 

"She's with her dad right now," Isabel felt guilty. "I don't want to bother her. We'll call her later." 

*** 

"And we go ski in Zurich or see the fjords in Norway," Jeremy told his daughter. She was cuddled next to him, a stack of tour guides in front of them. "Oh, and you'll love Germany, they have the best food: schnitzel, bratwurst, and brotchen." 

"Cool, I promised Liz I'd get her a dirndl!" 

Jeremy hugged Maria, "And, of course, we'll have to get Alex lederhosen." 

She laughed; he was great. The incident with Isabel had left her mind. She didn't need anyone but her dad. 

*** 

"Thanks, Mr. Hinds," Max told the art teacher. "Michael thought he should start to keep them all at home." 

"No problem, they were starting to clutter the room, anyway. Actually, about his final project-" 

"Max!" Alex yelled from down the hall. "Motor's running, come on." 

"Oh, gotta go, Mr. Hinds. Thanks again." 

"Did you get them all?" 

"Yeah, come on, help me with them." The two boys loaded the paintings into the jeep. 

*** 

"There are only seven?" Isabel asked. 

"Not including the domes, but I think those were made too long ago." 

"And the one in the library but we checked it out," Max added. 

"Okay, so what do we have?" Liz began to unwrap the paintings. 

They worked slowly, not sure what they wanted. 

"These are all landscapes and still lifes," Max said, finally. 

"So we're thinking Venus Fly Trap-Little Shoppe o' Horrors maybe," Alex deadpanned. 

"Alex, this isn't the time." 

"I'm serious." 

"Hey, stop, you guys," Liz broke in. "There's one left." 

"It's heavier." 

Isabel touched it, "I don't feel anything special about it." 

"Who says you should?" Max said impatiently 

"No." 

"What is it? We can't see, Liz." 

Liz swallowed hard as she turned the panel around 

"Oh my god, that's-" 

"Look at the date on it, Isabel, it's the night Michael got his powers under control." 

"Max," Alex's voice had lost all humor, "How did he know...?" 

"He's right," Liz said, "This is before we ever met him. That's just before Maria started getting the phone calls. Max, how did he know what Maria's dad looked like?" 

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   [1]: http://www24.brinkster.com/themonkeyworks/stories/bydefinition1.html
   [2]: http://www24.brinkster.com/themonkeyworks/stories/bydefinition3.html
   [3]: http://www24.brinkster.com/themonkeyworks/bobvilla.html



	3. Chapters 10-20

By Definition: A Story about Dreaming A { TEXT-DECORATION: none } 

**Disclaimer**: "Untouchable Face" is from Ani diFranco's album Dilate. 

Either Way She Loses 

"Alex, where are your matches," Max said tersely. 

"Uh, Max, I don't think that's the answer. Maybe we should think this through." 

Max looked at the other boy shortly. He strode over to the painting in Liz's hands and held his hand hovering beside it. His hand glowed faintly and the panel burst into flame." 

"Holy shit!" Liz shrieked as her hands were enveloped by flame. She had still been holding the panel. 

Quickly, Alex tugged the dark girl so the painting fell from her grip. As it descended, it burned unnaturally quick to become, finally, a pile of harmless ash on his mom's favorite carpet. Liz was also on the carpet, rolling to smother the fire. Isabel helped her up and pressed her own silvery hands to Liz's for healing. 

"What the hell are you thinking, Max? You could've killed her!" 

Liz sat on the couch, staring at her hands. She sank against Alex, who was smoothing her hair gently. 

"It was for Michael." 

Isabel looked at him in shock, "That was your miracle cure?" 

"I'm going to check on him," Max started up the stairs. 

A hand on his shoulder spun him back around. 

"That was really stupid." Liz's brown eyes held nothing of love. 

"Look, it's not like I couldn't have healed you." 

"This isn't about me. You don't know anything about what's happening to Michael. What if he's tied to the painting? You might walk into that room and find your best friend blackened to a crisp." 

Max blanched, "Well, at least we'll know what's wrong and be able to fix it." 

"And Maria? Will you be able to fix Maria, too? That is her father in that painting!" 

"That's not her father, it's a painting, Liz, a stupid painting. And when it comes between Michael and a piece of colored cardboard, I'll pick the real person, the only one that matters, every time! 

He turned back towards the stairs. 

"Don't you see that it's not your choice?" Liz whispered, knowing that despite his actions Max would hear her. "This is between them. If you take Maria's father away, she'll fall apart. If you take Michael away, she'll fall apart. If you burn the painting don't you understand that we can't do anything?' 

"Either way, she loses 

*** 

"Maria, it's dinnertime. I hope you didn't stuff yourself at lunch. If I remember correctly, your father has a stomach of iron..." 

Amy pushed the bedroom door open a little. She stopped to appreciate the mellow texture of her daughter's voice. It was quiet and gentle, almost like whispering. 

"Think i'm going for a walk now  
I feel a little unsteady  
I don't want nobody to follow me  
'cept maybe you" 

She smiled; singing the way Maria did should be fattening. 

"I could do a lot of things  
and I do" 

So her daughter did have a love life. No amount of talent could instantly inject that amount of passion into the song. She wondered who it was and if trip to Europe would affect him. Ah, young love. 

"Tell you the truth,  
I prefer the worst of you" 

Maria's feathery touch on the song slackened. Hurt was added to the music she kneaded with her husky crooning. 

"you know I really don't look forward  
to seeing you again soon  
I won't know what to do   
I won't know what to say' 

"See you and I'm so perplexed  
What was I thinking  
What will I think next  
Where can I hide" 

Through the crack she'd opened in the doorway, Amy could see Maria perched on her bed, feet dangling. Her left elbow was on her knee, her left cradled her own soft face. 

"There's a changing constellation  
of balls as we are playing  
I see Orion and say nothing  
the only thing I can think of saying" 

She wanted to go in and hold her. Tell her, like a mother should, that no man was worth it. All men were inherently stupid. 

Either that or find whoever was causing her daughter so much hurt and hang him on a wall by his own rotting innards. 

"is fuck you...  
and your untouchable face  
fuck you  
for existing in the first place"  


Maria's voice prowled low, low. The snarl of her cursing almost an admission of surrender. 

"and who am I  
that I should be vying for your touch  
who am I  
bet you can't even tell me that much" 

Amy DeLuca soundlessly slid the door shut, unable to bear the gnawing grief on her sixteen-year old daughter's face. So young to feel so much. 

The unmuffled singing receded into sobs. 

"somebody tell me that much  
somebody, please  
just tell me that much" 

Hungry 

Maria's knees locked up and her throat clenched, strangling the lush murmur of her voice. Her body went boneless and she began to gag on her own tongue as she collapsed on the floor like ashes from a cigarette: 

> The emerald city crumbled above and below her. It fell, glass embedding itself in her flesh, purpling with her blood. She fled towards the crystal buildings, her bare feet catching sharp points of shattered green glass from the cobblestones. She pounded and scratched: no doors. 
> 
> She collapsed against the painfully smooth crystal building, blood streaking down nose, legs, everything. 
> 
> It all disappeared as she was heaved upright into the not. 
> 
> Blood glass green tail tower howling waves salt blood. All gone except in her mind. 
> 
> "My mind." 
> 
> She scowled. 
> 
> "This is so like you! Even when you invade me you have to cordon off your own private broody territory for assholes only. Well, I got something to tell you, buddy: It's done. I don't know what sort of cathartic Never-Ending Story moment you're trying to share with me, but damnit, Michael, can't you just leave it all alone? Leave me alone. I'm sick of this whole melodramatic angst-thing you're pulling." 
> 
> She crossed her arms, warming to the subject. 
> 
> "I'm happy! I've got...natural blonde hair!" 
> 
> Hair? You can do better than that, Maria. Surely, she thought. 
> 
> "I've got friends and clear skin, talent, and common sense! I have a clean place to live, good food to eat, and a family. A nuclear family even! My mom's got strings to pull with the law in this town, my dad's got shitloads of cash! He's taking me to Europe, you know. I'm his favorite daughter! He won't leave me, he will never leave me. We're going to Paris, Prague, and...and Reykjavík. Yes, Reykjavik. And I'll have fun. I'll learn how to order candied pears in Portuguese, pour boiling pitch over castle walls, and have hot, meaningful sex with my private ski instructor!' 
> 
> "I'm happy!" She began to jump, up and down. Turned cartwheels in her hysteria. "Happy! Happy!" 
> 
> "Happy? Happy, Maria?" 
> 
> "HAPPY!" She paused in the not, catching her breath. "I'm so freaking happy I don't need you!" 

*** 

"I don't understand," Max looked down at his hands helplessly. He was sitting in a folding chair next to Alex's bed. 

Isabel looked at her brother, tears in her eyes. "Max, what are we gonna do?" 

Liz was pressing cold cloths on Michael's forehead and bare chest. "Were we wrong? About the painting?" She sat next to Michael's still form. 

"What else could it be?" Alex paced wearily, stopping only to comfort his girlfriend. "The idea that it's some random Czechoslovakian thing...it blows my mind! Because if that's what it is, how do we protect the two of you?" 

Isabel pulled Alex down beside her and kissed him gently on the neck. "Shh, don't think like that. Not yet." 

"Is, he's right. What if it could happen to us?" 

"Let's think logically. Start over again. Maybe we're still right about the painting stuff, everything fits except..." 

*** 

> Maria careened into walls-split herself in halves and thirds-ripping like a plum-Maria bucked and reeling-Maria stood still. Pale pathways jerked in the surrounding air -one, she remembered vaguely. It had shot through her arm. It had shivered with the steadiness of her beating heart before sizzling away. There were also streams of silvery sand whipping in concentric circles as if she were the eye of a million tornadoes. 
> 
> She stood for a rather long time before everything but herself and the smell of crackling ozone. 
> 
> Like a cornfield after lightning has burnt the stalks down 
> 
> Suddenly, she was halved. Her right eye stared into the left one. Her left arm grabbed for her right but, unbalanced, her left side fell over. Slowly, it picked itself up and tried again. Her halves repelled like magnets. 
> 
> "I'm sorry," Maria said. 
> 
> "Not yet," came the reply. 
> 
> *** 
> 
> The dream tore itself against Maria, embedding itself. 
> 
> Hungry. 
> 
> It crept into, became her flesh through mouth -between legs- hurting her- hurting her. Hungry, where there was no entry it furrowed into marrow. Her fingers and feet swelled and burst with a loud pop. Her skin shriveled and trailed down her belly in strips. She shook and bloody pieces slapped against each other. 

*** 

When Maria stopped breathing, the dream took over. 

Rehash 

Liz pulled Alex aside, leaving Isabel to follow her brother upstairs. 

"Max is just worried," Alex began softly. 

"I'm not worried about Max Evans right now. I'm worried about Maria. If we're right..." 

"I know, I heard what you said. Either she loses." Alex brought his arm his friend's slim shoulders. Maria's outward attitude was one of independence and strength -she didn't anyone or anyone. But both her best friends knew there was a deep ache in her that she'd been trying to fill all her life. She had faulted herself for her father's abandonment, citing her imperfections and inadequacies in numbered lists she kept in her dresser. 

Maria constantly strove to prove herself worthy of love, they'd hoped she'd seen her worth reflected in Michael's eyes. But Michael hadn't been ready to show her, he'd been scared to give and accept love. 

Liz sighed, it wasn't supposed to be like this. 

If only she'd tried a little harder to convince Maria that no matter how cherished she was it meant nothing if she didn't cherish herself. If, when they got through this she was going to make Maria see that she deserved to be loved. Even if she had to beat it into her. 

And now... 

Maria thought she'd finally been accepted by her father. But when she found it wasn't really father? That he was some figment of Michael's imagination? 

Liz whispered. "How could he do this to her?" 

"What?" Alex said, still cradling her. 

Nothing, uh, someone should talk to Maria. Tell her what's going on." 

"You're right. I'll go." 

Only after Liz left did Alex realize he didn't know how Michael had been affected by the burnt painting. 

He turned up the stairs, scared. 

It was so quiet. 

*** 

> The siren song blasted her ears, boiling her brain. She drove her hands up against her, attempting to contain her sanity. It bled, sending pulses of angry beats through membranes through matter. It throbbed, it pounded. 
> 
> "Gonna get you gonna get you gonna make you  
so happy,  
Gonna get you..."  

> 
> It was one voice and many -Michael's and her father's. 
> 
> Michael's. 
> 
> And finally, it her own voice crooning madly. 
> 
> "Not yet," the other Maria had promised. Not yet. So it was written in stone then, she'd be sorry? 
> 
> Struggling to open her eyes, Maria felt her own body trembling with each accusation. Her skin chafed with every palpitation. 
> 
> And then she saw that she had no eyes, no skin. She was tight, so tight, and everywhere. She became sound. 
> 
> She became the dream. 
> 
> She was light and dark and out of control. 
> 
> God, it hurt, this freedom. This blindness. She was so confused. 
> 
> What were they saying? Why couldn't she see? 
> 
> And then Maria realized she was dying. 
> 
> And maybe -if it meant silence, if it meant she didn't have to deal with dreaming- that was okay with her. 
> 
> It was so loud. 

Red Wind, Long Arm, Tongue of Earth 

Liz tried not to scream when she found Maria, her body at an impossible angle on the bed. 

She tried. But this was her best friend and Maria wasn't breathing. 

The scream was little as these things go, but full of fear. 

She ran to Maria's side and slapped her face in a panic. 

Her hands became sticky with the blood that seeped from the blonde's nose. 

*** 

> She had a body again and there was an ache in her center. 
> 
> It became a wick and she began to burn from the inside out. She could feel flames engulf her heart and liver, stomach and spleen. She labored to breath but the fire had reached her lungs and scorched them. Maria imagined the gaping, scraping cracks on the twin organs. She imagined the angry blue and white inferno. 
> 
> Her skin remained a porcelein white as the blaze frenzied on. 
> 
> Maria began to tremble with its fury, she couldn't contain the dream. 

*** 

Liz unceremoniously dumped Maria into the shower stall, slamming her head against the glass. She slammed the dial to hot and eventually the water ran down Maria's face in rivulets, blurring her features. 

*** 

> She was no more a candle. 
> 
> She was long arm, red wind, tongue of earth. 
> 
> She and the dream  
she became the dream   
she was the dream   
the dream ran on. 
> 
> Her tendrils felt the way through the black blackness towards orange towards angry towards hungry. 
> 
> The dream had to eat before the dream went, before the dream died, before the dream lied. 
> 
> Twirling like a tornado, like a grass fire, the dream hunted. 
> 
> It came to Michael. 
> 
> To his skeleton, to his skull, to his heap of broken bones. 

*** 

She awoke to steam and strong, small arms that rocked her. She looked up in shock and surprise, "Liz, what are you doing here?" 

The brunette brushed tears from her cheeks, "You were hurting." 

"Just a dream, intense, but, you know, just a dream," Maria tried to shrug and smile. 

Liz frowned and the steam seemed to form a halo above her head. She used the porcelein to hold herself up, "C'mon and lend me some clothes? There are some things you need to know." 

Maria followed her quietly. 

*** 

"I'm scared. I can't lose him," Max rubbed tiredly at his eyes. Michael was, somehow, still on the bed, alive or whatever. He was neither burnt to a crisp nor better. Max wished he could talk to Michael, though. Though the two were often at odds, Max knew they were brothers. For always. A loud sob escaped his throat as he tried again to touch's Michael's forehead. 

"I love him, too," Isabel said. They were seated on Alex's bed, on either side of Michael. She laid her hand on her older brother's shoulder. 

They were quiet for a moment. Isabel curled up, her face sad. "We can make it all right." 

"I know I messed up," Max said. "I put him in danger. I won't do it again." He looked to Michael's fading form, "I promise, Michael 

*** 

Alex leaned against his door, careful not to make it creak. He'd been waiting in the hall -eavesdropping- since Liz had left. 

He knew what guys in school said about him, they thought he was this artsy fartsy empathetic girly-sensitive. Did he listen? Sure. Did he care about people? Sure. But Alex knew he wasn't he dealt with many things with humor, which wasn't a bad thing but- 

What was he supposed to do? Bring Michael back to life with knock-knock jokes? 

All he could do was take care of them. He had to keep it perspective, had to make sure they didn't break apart. Alex sighed; he wanted to cry. 

Alex sighed. He seemed to be doing that a lot. 

*** 

The two girls sat on Maria's bed with towels on their heads. Liz pulled at hers nervously; she had borrowed jeans and a shirt from Maria. 

This was so hard, Liz thought. She was remembering the look of agony on Maria's face, how the pain had bled into confusion. 

"Michael...it has to do with Michael, doesn't it?" Maria's voice trembled. 

"Yes." 

"Is he okay?" 

"He's...I don't know." Liz wanted to make her feel better, but she wouldn't lie. 

"Take it slow," Maria said, as if she was calm. 

"I, _we all_ think he might be dying." 

"Can't Max wiggle his fingers?" 

"No," Liz paused. "There's more. But do you want me to tell you now?" 

"Please." 

"Do you remember a few weeks ago, when Michael could control his powers?" 

She remembered the day she found out, her pride and then how he'd invaded her sanctuary. She remembered their last kiss. "Sure. I remember." 

"He found something else, a power that Max and Isabel don't have. He can draw things, paint them and make them real." 

Maria gasped. 

Liz continued, "The only thing is that you can't make something from nothing. Life...reality, you can't conjure it from thin air." 

Liz paused again. "I'm not saying this well, I'm not sure if I understand it myself. Mass is neither created nor destroyed. It's the Law of Conservation." 

Maria didn't want to ask what Michael was using to make things real. She didn't have to think about it. "That's why he's dying...he's using his own..." 

"Yes," Liz confirmed. "He's at Alex's right now. Will you come with me?" 

"Of course." 

"Tell me something first," Liz asked. "Is something going on with you? That wasn't just a dream, was it?" 

"Of course it was." 

Liz had her own suspicions but didn't want to press Maria. There would be time for that, later. 

The Swinging Noose 

Liz had offered to drive the Jetta to Alex's. Maria let her drive. She never knew when the dream (nightmare?) would take her but she didn't tell Liz that. Maria claimed she was tired. 

She still couldn't wrap her mind around what Michael had done. It was unreal. 

It was stupid. What could be so important that he let it kill him? 

That didn't sound like the Michael she knew. The Michael she knew desperately wanted to live, to survive. 

She didn't talk to him much though. Not lately. But she still cared. Even her dad had been able to tell. 

*** 

Alex was waiting outside when the girls arrived. Max and Isabel were going to try and feed Michael more power but they had agreed to wait until Liz returned with Maria. 

"Hey," Alex moved to hug Maria. 

"Any change?" Liz asked. 

He shook his head, "Let's go upstairs. They're going to dreamwalk him again." 

"Do you have any ice," Liz said. "Maybe we can keep from burning this time." 

"Burning," Maria interrupted. 

Maria watched them all prepare from the doorway. They ignored her. 

Finally, Liz placed herself behind Max holding a pitcher of water. Isabel placed herself between her two brothers, guarding them protectively. Alex looked up suddenly and beckoned for Maria to- 

> She waded through milk, white and thick with cream. 
> 
> A body swung to the rhythm of the wind, creaking. Wind whistled through the stab wounds, holes so big you could stick your head through them. 
> 
> It hung from a noose, but the rope wasn't fraying so she didn't worry. It would be awful if the body fell, corrupting the milk. Who would drink it then? 
> 
> There was still some flesh attached to the bones and she salivated. 
> 
> Her hand ignited as she reached for a choice piece from the thigh. She couldn't grab it; it only burned and fell. The black ashes swirled briefly before sinking into the milk. 
> 
> Angry, she torched the body. Each shred of skin and piece of bone dropped into the milk with a satisfying 'plop.' 
> 
> Finally, only the head was left. It swung to face her. Michael's face slid off the head and winked at her before floating away. 

Max opened his eyes in disbelief. He shut them again, but it wouldn't work. 

"I can't reach him. It's like he never was." 

"But-," Isabel pointed to Michael's steaming body. He was shaking all the towels from him. "It's just like before." 

"Maria!" Alex screamed when he noticed her fallen form in the hallway, shaking and steaming just like Michael's. 

*** 

The noose wasn't as tight as it looked. It was sort of enjoyable, swinging with the sweet breeze, she reflected. 

When the first chunks of muscle and fat began to slide cleanly off the bone, she fancied that it was rather liberating. 

The wind had started to whistle for her. She started to sing softly with it. She smiled. 

She could just wait here forever, swinging. 

Of Nightmares 

Maria awoke to the sound of low gurgling murmurs. All eyes were on her and her arms were on Michael. Quietly, she slipped her arms away and let her eyes rise. 

Max and Isabel sat in chairs on the other side of Alex's bed, next to Michael. Alex was at her side. Wonderful, she thought, racial segregation. 

She let her gaze wander down to Michael. He was a shadow. 

"What's going on?" Isabel asked softly. "Don't tell me, it's nothing. We have to know, Maria. Please." Isabel's face was sad, but compassionate. She didn't push, Maria almost wished she would push. 

"I have these dream...snightmares," Maria swallowed painfully. "They are sharp, real. I can't stop them. Even if I'm not sleeping, they come. Everything is so vivid color, the coldThe dreams take me." 

"At first, they were...oddities. Just weirdness. Nothing to fear," she continued. "They're dark now, fullI can't take them." 

Liz moved her hand to enclose Maria's. "When I went to her house, I found Maria unconscious. Bleeding." 

"It's never been that way before," Maria said. She looked down at Michael again, "He's always there." 

She didn't name him. "I can never reach him. Sometimes he's asleep. But he's always there." She fell silent. 

Max stood, thinking. "Could you have been sharing dreams 

"I don't know...I'm not even sure who the dreams would belong to then." 

Max paced, mind-work providing welcome relief from worry. "Okay. We know that Mar- whatever Michael created is somehow draining him so that it can live or whatever. We know that Michael can, or could bereplenished by Isabel and me. We've been calling it 'power,' I know I think of it as a 'life-force.'" Max paused in his long speech to take a breath. "What if it's his ability to dream?" 

Liz picked up the thread of thought. "Dreaming -it's taken too much from him. He's dying. But he, it needs more." 

"But that makes no sense why would it kill its source of life? When, if Michael can't dream anymore, it'll die." 

Isabel interrupted, "Maybe it's unintentional." 

Max looked at Maria, "Yeah, maybe it is." 

Liz said, "Wait, we're missing something. If Michael can still dream, then why can't you or Max get in there with him?" 

"And what does this have to do with my dreams?" Maria asked. 

"Maybe," Isabel ventured, "you've got this bond. A connection. Michael in your dreams means he gets to live." 

"Why me? Why not you? Or him," she pointed at Max. 

"Maybe because he loves you," Alex said from the doorway. 

"That's ridiculous," Maria hissed. "And none of you have mentioned how out of character this is! It's Michael, no way he'd let some Frankenstein creation use him 

Alex and Isabel exchanged looks, "Maybe he can't stop itor doesn't want to." 

Max remembered Michael's last words to them, _I choose him._ Michael had chosen Maria's father to make her happy. Max wondered at Michael's capacity for love, would he have done that? Max admitted he was too selfish. Michael was the one who went to extremity, who was able to give himself completely. 

Max didn't want to lose him. 

But Liz's words bit at him. What about Maria? He could understand what it was like not to have a father; he'd spent years wishing to know one. And Michael had made a conscious choice. 

It wasn't his decision to make. As if he couldMax felt hopelessness well in him. Maybe it was a spark of premonition, but Max knew this could not end well. 

Alex moved forward, "I went to your car to find some pills. I found this." He gestured to the package Mrs. Clarke had given to Maria for Michael. She'd never given it to him. "It's Michael's, some art thing or other." 

Isabel ran towards the package and tore the wrapping off. She gasped. It was dated later than the other one, only two days before Maria started getting the phone calls. 

Maria moved beside Isabel to see what was so urgent. "That's my dad -why was he painting my dad?" 

Isabel stiffened and Maria looked at the others. Their faces were locked in various stages of shock, relief, and pity. 

_Happy, Maria? _

Maybe he can't stop itor doesn't want to. 

No. No. They were crazy-stupid. It was insane. It was no. 

But she realized this was the answer to her questions: What was so important that Michael let it steal his life? What did this have to do with her dreams? 

No. No. 

He was real! He loved her! He was real! 

"No!" She screamed and ran away from Alex's house and the boy in the bed. 

I Just Need a Little More Time 

Somehow she ended up at the Crashdown. Jeff Parker had found her on the curb and tried to talk to her. Maria remembered a time when he was the only father she had. She laughed bitterly after he'd gone. 

She had worked past the emotional overload and was beginning to experience distinct emotions now: disbelief, anger, and betrayal. 

Her shoe had broken along the way, Maria noticed for the first time. 

"Maria," a hand brushed her shoulder. 

"Go away, Alex." She couldn't believe they hadn't told her. They knew. _They knew._

"I can't do that." 

"Like you couldn't tell me, tell me-," Maria couldn't say it herself. They didn't tell her what? Tell her that her father not only was a construct, but one created by her dying alien ex-boyfriend. Because it's not like her _real_ father loved her enough to come back -nope, only the programmed and _created_ ones. 

Alex could have made excuses: they'd only just found out or that Maria was hard to find. He wasn't going to. "We were scared." 

"Me, too." 

They sat quietly for a minute, holding hands. 

"I was so happy, you know, when my dad came. It was really perfect. Him and my mom got along. And Europe, I mean, Europe...I guess that should have been my first clue. But me, no, I was too eager to hop on the first train to Fairy Tale Land." 

Alex hated the sourness in her voice, but realized she needed to talk. 

"Seriously, I would've been happy if he'd shown up on with nothing but a bad alibi and the clothes on his back. I mean, the only thing that mattered was that he was my dad and he was with me. It made me feel good. Better than good. It was something I've always wanted, it made me feel likelike I was worthy. Like my whole life wasn't going to be this continuous business of people abandoning me-," she choked up. 

But this it's worse than know that my dad my real dad- is out there and he doesn't want me. Because I had...all these feelings and they weren't real and I don't know if I can ever feel them again. If I even want to. It's all fake. His stories and his laugh. I don't get it.' 

"I feel so betrayed. He lied to me, Alex. I love him and he's not even real. I had a dad, I knew what it was like and it was so so good. It hurts, Alex, god, Alex. It hurts." 

He held her while she cried; he cried with her. "I want to keep him, too. I want to have a dad. I need him. He's my dad," she cried as if her friend could do something about it. 

"But Michaelhow could he do this to me? How could heI'm mad and I'm glad andhe's not real. Oh, god, he's not real. Not real. And I love him." 

Alex wished he could take her pain away. But he was only human. 

*** 

Her tears subsided around dusk but Alex could see the line of sadness written in her mouth. 

Mr. Parker had called him, worried about Maria. Max had vowed to keep the painting safe so he had kissed Isabel goodbye and left. 

"Can you take me to see my dad?" Maria asked in a shadowed voice. 

"Of course," he led her to the Jetta. 

"I just need a little more time," she whispered to herself and swallowed. 

Nothing I Can Fix 

Ironically, it was Max who vowed to keep the portrait safe. 

Max figured it for atonement, though lacking, and Alex had not insulted him by refusing. 

In silent agreement, the three of them stayed in Alex's room. Max by the painting; Liz by the open window. Isabel lay beside Michael with a cold towel, replacing any and all happier memories made in Alex's bed. 

An inappropriately warm breeze stirred the linen curtains the only movement, the only music. 

*** 

"Baby!" Jeremy threw open the door to welcome his daughter into his hotel room. He enveloped her in a deep hug before greeting Alex. "Hail Noble Childhood Companion of the Clan DeLuca's Favorite Daughter!" 

Alex smiled automatically. He flinched when he remembered that the man was not real. How could Maria's father be sohave so much personality then? 

Oh, yes, Alex reflected. The power of Michael and his love. Mr. Deluca might not be real but he was altogether too human. 

Alex sat silently in an overstuffed armchair while Maria crawled into her father's lap. Luckily, Jeremy was a big man or it would have been a ridiculous feat 

"What's the matter?" Jeremy asked in a hushed and gentle voice. 

"Nothing, Dad." 

"Nothing I can fix, you mean?" 

Alex flinched. Maria didn't. 

Just a little tired, and excited. Tell me again about our trip?" 

"Of course, Maria." 

Alex noticed Jeremy said "Maria" the way most people say "gold" or "wish." He said "Maria" the way Michael did. The exact same way. 

Maria's father moved her softly off his lap onto the spot beside him. He cradled her head beneath his arm and caressed her hair. 

"Our journey will began in Britain, the old land of proud kings and prouder women." 

Alex wished her father hadn't made it a fairy tale. He wished for a lot of things, like the ability to be angry with Michael. She was going to lose them both, Alex realized. Michael would die. Then her father would die. Or would Maria die first? Did it matter: the sequence 

"Alex?" 

Michael's creation and Maria's father looked at him questioningly. Alex realized the he saw the both of them in Jeremy. 

"She fell asleep." 

Alex looked down and saw that Maria was, in fact, asleep. He hoped it was dreamless. 

"You should take her home now, Alex. It's getting late and tomorrow is a school day." 

"Are you sure?" 

"I'm sure, c'mon. You grab my key card and I'll carry her out to the carry out to the car." 

"Carry? Maybe we should wake her up..." 

"No, Alex, she's tired. She said so." Jeremy lifted her in his arms, "I wish she would tell me what's wrong. It looks like she's got the whole world on her shoulders. 

Her father shook his head, "We've said too many goodbyes; I don't need to say it again. She knows I love her. We'll see each other tomorrow." 

Alex watched quietly as Jeremy kissed her on the forehead and shut the door. 

Light 

Maria awoke to the vibration of the cell phone against her breast. She met Alex's eyes in the rearview mirror as she answered. 

"Hello?" 

"Maria," Liz's voice was frantic. "You two have to get back here right now!" 

Alex grabbed the phone, "What's going on?" 

"Michael's almost gone. I mean it, like, really gone. Isabel and Max tried to save him but they couldn't-," Liz broke off in sobs. 

"We'll hurry." He shut off the phone and turned to Maria. 

"I heard," she said. "So go." 

Alex's mouth pressed into a thin line as he gunned the engine and tried to ignore the pain he felt coming off Maria in waves. 

*** 

They were burning candles in Alex's room, tall pillars of white and cream wax. Liz had lit them when the sun set. She'd been the only one who noticed. 

Isabel held Max in her arms as they both cried. One brother left, she thought. 

She'd tried so hard- 

Maria shot through the door and onto the bed, her eyes red and ragged. 

"I'm sorry," Isabel said. 

"It's not over," Maria said. "He can't die, not until I get my choice. This is my life; it's my decision. It's my life," she shouted. "Do you hear me?" 

Liz moved forward, "No, Maria, it's too late. There's no dreaming left." 

Then Maria remembered her falling asleep in her father's arms and waking refreshed for the first time in months. She hadn't dreamed. She hadn't dreamed for Michael and now he was going to die. 

What was she supposed to feel? 

Looking up through grief, Isabel opened her arm up to welcome Maria. Sisters by mourning, they grabbed each other. A fresh fall of sobbing welled up in Max's throat as he enclosed the two girls. 

Alex entered his room with silent feet and tapped Liz on her shoulder. "Let them be," he said, leading her downstairs. 

They whispered to each other carefully 

"We can't leave them alone, Alex. This isn't the end. Is Maria going to die like that, fading?" 

"What are we supposed to do? We couldn't save Michael and things haven't changed." 

"There is...always the painting. We can still burn it, before Maria's drained." 

"No," Maria's voice was strong from the foot of the staircase. She clutched a jar in her fist. 

"Put me to sleep," she ordered. "I can dream. I've called him into my sleep before. I'll get him back. I can fix this." 

Alex jumped to his feet, "Those are my mom's pills. Maria, those are prescribed." 

Maria could tell that when Alex said prescriptive what he meant to say was, "This is stupid, you're doing this over my dead body." 

"You have a choice. You can watch over me or you can stay down here." 

Incongruously Liz pointed out, "But it's his room." 

"I know," she answered. "But I have to make this right." 

"It's not your fault, though, it was never your fault." 

"I heard what you said earlier, you know, about me being next. Or last, or whatever. So don't think I'm being selfless. Survival, right?" 

*** 

They lay her down where Michael had lain; where the weight of his body still made an impression on pillows and blanket. 

Liz cradled her head while Alex sat at her feet. Isabel and Max sat on either side, neither one remarking on the familiarity of the situation. 

Alex twisted off the cap of the Sonata and carefully counted out two pills before handing them to Maria. She dry-swallowed them. 

*** 

> She found herself in front of the library wall, the one made out of stained glass. But because it was a wall and not a window, no light shone through and the colors were dull. 
> 
> Squaring her shoulders, Maria placed her hands against the glass and pushed against it. 
> 
> Nothing happened. 
> 
> Relieving a little pressure, she lifted her head and began to sing. 
> 
> "This little light of mine,  
I'm gonna let it shine.  
This little light of mine,  
I'm gonna let it shine,  
Let it shine, let it shine, let it shine" 
> 
> As she sang, she felt a pulse and pull. The once random geometric glass pattern heaved together. The shards of butter and bone came together and parted to form Michael's face. 
> 
> "Shine," she breathed at last. 
> 
> A fine, pale light surged through the pane and Michael stepped out of the wall. 
> 
> "What have you done?" He hissed at her. 
> 
> She was supposed to be the angry one. Taken aback, she said, "Saving your life." 
> 
> "I was fine where I was," Michael bit back. 
> 
> "So you'd rather be dead than be with me." 
> 
> "I'd rather you be happy." 
> 
> "Happy? What makes you think I'm happy?" 
> 
> "You have your father, Maria." He paused. "I gave him to you." 
> 
> "You made him. He wasn't yours to give." 
> 
> "Can't you just be pleased?" Michael was exasperated. I made him out of love, to love you. I chose him." 
> 
> "What about my choices? You say love, but what you mean is a reasonable facsimile. He's not real, Michael. And neither is this," she gestured to the dream world. 
> 
> "It's real, Maria, and I don't belong here. I've given up my place for someone else." 
> 
> "You're proud of yourself!" It wasn't supposed to be like this, bickering pointlessly but Maria couldn't help herself. 
> 
> "Shouldn't I be?" 
> 
> "Don't you get it? He's not real. I don't want him!" 
> 
> Michael shook a little, "I have nothing left to give you." 
> 
> "And I don't want anything you can't give me." She tried to tame her voice, "Please, stop this." 
> 
> "It's too late, Maria. I can't change it. And I wouldn't. He makes you happy; he has to. I know he does." 
> 
> "Don't make me do this, Michael." The painting of her father appeared in her hands. She imagined a lighter and set it aflame. 
> 
> Michael chuckled lightly, "Maria, you said this wasn't real, remember. It's just a dream, you can't change it." 
> 
> He took the painting from her and doused the flames. He leaned into her, whispered into her ear, "Be happy." 
> 
> And then he faded away and took all the light with him. 

Alex thought he recognized the look on Maria's sleeping face. The upturn of her mouth, the scrunching of her eyes. It was the face she had when she was fighting with Michael. There was anger and passion and joy. 

Then he noticed the little tears forming in the corners of her eyes. He saw Liz wipe one away. 

He wanted to touch her, too, to make sure that Maria was okay. 

When she opened her eyes, her whole face changed. It became dark and shadowed. 

Max opened and closed his mouth, unwilling to ask questions 

"Could I have a little time?" 

Isabel's heart shattered more at the weak mewling quality of Maria's voice. It was never meant to sound that way. 

Nodding assent for all of them, Liz led the way out of the room. 

"Leave the painting, will you, please?" 

Max tried to keep the pity out of his face as he put the portrait in her arms. Maria opened them wide, slowly, as if receiving a gift. 

When the door shut firmly behind them, Maria moved quickly. She grabbed the matches from beside the candles and struck them. She let them fall onto the painting, but she refused to look at her father's face. She grabbed the jar of sleeping pills Alex had left on the nightstand. 

One, three, fifteen. She swallowed them all without tasting them. 

Dream and Not-Dream 

> She sat in the curve of the rock covered by moss and smiling insects. She flicked her tongue out of her mouth and caught some of the smaller purple ones. She smiled before spitting them out on the toadstools and brown mushrooms. 
> 
> "Don't you like the antennae," a boy asked from a low-hanging tree branch. 
> 
> "Too troubled," she replied. "I like my food without issues." 
> 
> "This the wrong dream," she shook her head. 
> 
> "Beggars can't be choosers," he explained. 

*** 

The open windows had been forgetten when Michael died. A gust stole inside as if seeking something. Finding nothing, it knocked one of the candles over and fled. 

A tongue of candleflame licked out at the papers on Alex's desk. The pages browned and fell to the floor. 

The plush carpet was lit and the fire spread with slow dedication. 

But the painting on the sleeping girl's lap was quiet. 

*** 

> She sat in the curve of the throne covered by jewels and stiff satin. She gazed into her small silver-plate mirror and saw no imperfection. She smiled before taking out a comb and tortoise-shell hairpin. 
> 
> "Don't you like the ribbon," a boy asked from a lower balcony. 
> 
> "Too troubled," she replied. "I like my coiffeur without issues." 
> 
> "Can't be choosy," he said. He opened his palm to reveal white capsules, "Airplane?" 
> 
> "This the wrong dream," she shook her head. 
> 
> "Beggars can't be choosers," he explained. 

*** 

The fire seethed and the curtains caught on blue fire. It rang all along the walls and carpet in smoking sheets. 

It flashed white before cradling and kissing the bed, curling it's body around the girl, the boy, and the painting like a salamander. 

*** 

> She sat in the shallow belly of the moonlit pool. She dove into the sweet green waves and made a small "oh" with her mouth. She smiled before drawing out the seawood and pearly pink coral. 
> 
> "Don't you like the oysters," a boy asked from the back of a silvered bass. 
> 
> "Too troubled," she replied. "I like my bivalves without issues." 
> 
> "Can't be choosy," he said. He opened his palm to reveal white capsules, "Hippopotamus?" 
> 
> "This the wrong dream," she shook her head. 
> 
> "Beggars can't be choosers," he explained. 

*** 

The flames continued to flicker effortlessly, even gently about the sleepers. It shifted to touch the golden strands of Maria's hair and slid along the locks happily. 

*** 

> She sat in the lambent incandescence of the burning bed. She looked up into the blackness and began to sing in soft words that never were. She smiled before calling Michael out of the ether. 
> 
> "Don't you like your life," the boy asked. 
> 
> "Too simple," she replied. "I like my existence with a little sincerity." 
> 
> "Can't be choosy," he said. He opened his palm to reveal white capsules, "Reality?" 
> 
> "That's what I want," she said. She held the pills for a moment, "I love you, you know." 
> 
> "I know. Things will be different, though. Our lives will change." 
> 
> "They already have." 
> 
> "Do you want it this badly?" 
> 
> "I've been looking for you." 
> 
> "What about-" 
> 
> "I don't want to talk about him. I'm still angry and I'm not making promises about us -but I do need you in my life." 
> 
> "I'll stay on the periphery." 
> 
> "You do that." 
> 
> "You can't stay any longer, Maria. You don't belong here and you've taken too many pills." 
> 
> "Then don't let me die." 
> 
> He slipped his hand into hers and let himself fall in with her body. They pulsed together, coalesced into fire. As one, they plunged inside the portrait of her father and sunk. 
> 
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	4. Epilogue

By Definition: A Story about Dreaming A { TEXT-DECORATION: none } 

"...In 1937, Hendrik Van Loon wrote that 'The arts are an even better barometer of what is happening in our world than the stock market or the debates in congress.' Take Moslem Spain for example, even though there was a struggle for land and power between the Christians and Moslems, the collision of Moslem, Christian, Moorish, and Spanish influences created an art and architecture unique in the world reflecting a culture just as unique. Or Picasso's Guernica, it was painted in reaction to the bombing of Guernica, a town in Bilbao. The mural is not only a statement of personal turmoil but national tragedy. It's images are unproportional and unrealistic, but the feeling is wild and pure. It looks like it's been painted by an insane man -or a man driven by anger and helplessness. But Picasso wasn't helpless, his popularity allowed Guernica and its tragic message be conveyed to the whole world.' 

"Picasso himself once said that, 'A painting is not thought out and settled in advance, while it is being done, it changes as one's thoughts change. And when it's finished, it goes on changing, according to the state of mind of whoever is looking at it.' 

"Art, by definition according to the American Heritage Dictionary, is 'branch of learning.' Not only does the artist learn, but the audience. In a similar relationship, not only does history influence art, but art influences history. Art is mutable, progressive and powerful," Alex took a deep breath as he wound down. 

"Very nice, Mr. Whitman," Mr. Sommers said from his desk. "Passionate, if confused. A solid report." 

Alex moved from behind the podium. The history teacher called on the next student but Alex wasn't really listening. He saw Max give him a noncommital nod and Liz gave him a shy, empty smile. 

When he sat in his chair, Isabel reached under the desk to squeeze his hand comfortingly. They looked into each other's eyes a minute, a little blankly. He squeezed her hand back, glad to be looking at anything other than the two empty chairs in front of him. 

Two empty chairs. Empty, like his bedroom, but for the black ashes and singed curtains that swung in the window he still hadn't closed. He closed his eyes against the memory. 

Art is powerful, he thought, it can break hearts. 

But can it heal them? 

*** 

When they found Maria, her face had been caught in a rictus of pain. She was sure the others had nightmares of her mouth stretched and cracked from one ear to the other in a perverted smile. Not her. 

Not sleeping, never sleeping. Never again. 

She washed, sometimes. Ivory soap, shampoo, and water. Didn't matter much, the fine grit of dust was still under her nails. Her hair was still stale. It was like she was a cigarette-smoker. Or someone else, anyone who wasn't herself. 

The morning after, she'd bought the paper. Every copy from every newstand on every corner. They were still stuffed in the trunk of her car. She'd woken up a little after dawn, stolen copies off people's porches. 

If there was no obit, then it meant he wasn't dead. Right? 

Right. 

It was the last time she'd left the house. 

There was no funeral to go to, not even ashes to let fly in the wind. Nothing discernible from the other things destroyed in the conflagration. No sign. 

No sign, no death? 

Sometimes, she thought she'd gone a little crazy. Not enough to make her forget. 

Most of the time, she stayed in her room, on the floor -never in bed. She'd shorn her bed of linen and taken to her mattress with a knife. 

Most of the time, she rocked herself, crumpled newspaper to her breast and didn't cry. 

She tried not to think of him, or how unfair it was. How short their time together was. 

She tried not to think of how it had been her choice and it wasn't anybody's else's fault. 

> _Flame-formed, Maria-Michael had searched out their other parts. The parts given and taken by the dream that was...Maria-Michael shut itself from that line of thought. Instead Maria-Michael concentrated on reclaiming themselves and devoured cleared clarified until the other was gone and Maria-Michael was complete and the same like an arrow they flew of one mind, of one heart in grief and love and oblivion as the world vibrated around and the dreaming returned to sleep to sleep as one and the fire had stilled and burnt itself out and it was beautiful and red and alive and they were together and the same and fire-_

She remembered being forced apart, how she'd cried when her life was divorced from Michael's. That pain was the only thing that made her forget her father's death. 

The papers said he died in a freak fire, his limo had exploded in the middle of the desert. There were pictures of the wreckage, but she didn't look at them. 

She tried not to think in general. About anything. 

"Maria?" The voice cut harshly into her silence. 

She didn't turn around. 

The crystal beaded curtain chimed as Michael entered her window. 

She didn't turn around. 

He stood behind her so she wouldn't have to look at him. "I'm sorry. So sorry. I never meant it to be this way, to hurt you more." He paused. "I didn't know it'd be like this." 

She ignored him. 

"I would die before hurting you," his words faded. "I guess you knew that. Talk to me, please? I know you can't forgive me, but I need to know that you're okay." 

He moved in front of her and saw that her lips were tucked between her teeth, her hands wrapped around her knees. He crouched so he could see how fragile she looked, how dead. He needed to remember the blackness of her under-eyes, the dryness of her red, flaking skin. He needed to the memory to stay away from her, so that he wouldn't be tempted to hurt her -however, unintentionally- again. 

He took one of her hands from her knee and pressed something small and hard into her palm. She didn't respond and he moved a little away. Sitting on the floor, he pulled out a chain from beneath his shirt. "It's a ring, we both have one. It's one-sided and as long as it touches your skin, it'll keep you safe from me. The ring, it's to keep our dreams separate. I promise.' 

"It's, uh, got a part of me in it. The last thing I'm ever gonna make. I'm never going to paint again," he looked at his hands. "I promise, Maria, I promise." 

She shifted her head so he could see the tears brimming her green eyes. "Don't-" 

"I promise," he repeated, his voice not a little broken. "I promise I'll stay away." 

She crumbled then, under a wall of memory, into his arms. She looked into his eyes and cried, "I just needed a little more time..." 

He spoke no more of promises. Michael only held her, and she held him. And they cried soundlessly over things neither could have. 

FIN. 

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